Lust Jaw
by Black Waltz 0
Summary: [WA3] Clive Winslett has a power that not even he himself understands, but it must be awoken to save his family. The Demon of Light and the Angel of Darkness shall duel... For Kaitlyn's future... For the future of them all...
1. Prologue

Lust Jaw

A WA3 Fanfiction By:

Black Waltz 0

xxx

It was late afternoon in the town of Humphrey's Peak, in the midst of autumn. The drifter quartet and the remainder of the Winslett family crowded the main room of the house, packing up their supplies for a short camping trip. With excited child-like anticipation did Kaitlyn try and hoist her backpack to her small shoulders, the extra weight threatening to force her off balance. She tipped into the hands of a big Baskar priest standing behind her, who chuckled and separated the girl from her burden.

"You sure you're gonna need all these things? We're only going to be away for the weekend." He said, removing three weeks worth of reading material and a giant oversized teddy bear that Kaitlyn had _somehow_ managed to stuff into such a small confinement from her pack.

"But Uncle Gallows!" Kaitlyn protested, "They're my special things! Daddy gave them to me, right Daddy?" Clive was sitting down on the couch, leaning slightly to the left. He was particularly pale, bereft of his trademark jacket, his left shoulder was tightly bandaged and seemed to be discomforting him to a small degree.

Clive smiled wanly, shifting himself into a straighter position. "Kaitlyn, a drifter cannot burden themselves with things that only have a sentimental value, as it will eventually drag them down to unwanted cessation. You should leave them here, at home, so you always know you can come back to them when you wish to rest your wings. Besides, I shall take care of them for you." He explained warmly.

"But Daddy-" Kaitlyn pleaded.

Virginia knelt down so she could speak to Kaitlyn face-to-face. "You shouldn't worry about it." She advised cheerfully. "When I first started out, I brought a whole suitcase full of things I didn't need. Soon enough, I realized it was more of a burden than a luxury. You should listen to your father."

Kaitlyn weighed the debate, and decided that they were indeed correct. "Okay, but take good care of Mr. Fuzzy Wuzzy!" She proclaimed, hugging the bear once for good measure.

Jet opened the door a crack, just enough to poke his head inside. "Yo dawdlers, we leaving or what? What's takin' so long?" The silver-haired boy looked impatient.

Virginia shot an irritated glance at Jet. "We'll be there in a sec, we're just saying goodbye." Jet rolled his eyes exasperatedly and shut the door, accidentally getting the shreds of his red and white bandanna caught in the doorframe. He opened it again and had to endure the fact that Virginia was giggling at him.

Catherine looked solemnly at Gallows and Virginia, hands clasped in front of her body. "Please take good care of her." She implored quietly. "After what happened before, I don't think either of us could take another shock like that." Catherine took Clive's hand and he nodded slightly.

The female drifter merely smiled and raised her hand in the making of a vow. With her other arm she elbowed Gallows to do the same. "We swear on Jet's grave she won't come to harm." Gallows made a similar promise, smirking.

"Hey!" Jet wrenched the window open and glared at the other two drifters. "I ain't dead yet!"

"We'll see." Virginia joked under her breath. Out loud she said; "You two… I hope, well, I hope things'll be better when we get back. With you, I mean, Clive. Get well soon."

"Thank you, Virginia. It means a lot to me to hear that." Clive replied, unconsciously rubbing his injured shoulder gingerly. The wound was very deep and painful, he swore that sometimes he could still feel the teeth sinking into him, but the worst part was not the physical hurt, that would go away in time, the mental scars went much deeper. And there was a good chance that they would never heal.

Gallows and Kaitlyn had finished sorting through all the things the girl would need on the road, able to halve the everything in her bag to only necessities. Kaitlyn swung the bag onto her back, much lighter than before. "I'm ready!" She cried in a sing-song voice, skipping over to her parents.

Catherine hugged her. "Be good. No fighting, no exploring by yourself and stay close to the group." 

Kaitlyn nodded happily. "I will, Mama." She looked at Clive, "Don't worry, Daddy. I'll be careful." Kaitlyn transferred herself from her mother's arms to her father's, but she was gentle because of the many bound injuries Clive was hiding under his vest.

It was time to go, and for a few moments Kaitlyn found it incredibly difficult to part with her family. Sure, she would be back in only two days, but she was beginning to miss them even before she had left. Seeing this, Gallows took her hand and led her to the doorway, Kaitlyn turned and waved all the way there.

"I shall escort all the pretty ladies!" He announced with glee, winking at the historian. Clive merely smiled and put his hand to his forehead, mumbling something like 'What have I done?'

Virginia opened the door for the two, Gallows having to duck a bit unless he wanted a big bruise on his forehead. "See you soon." She said, brushing a hand over a deep cut near her temple. Clive immediately grimaced at that motion. Virginia noticed what she was doing and flushed deep red. "I'm sorry. It was a reflex action." She apologized.

Clive looked tired. "No, I am the one who should be sorry." He sighed. "I'm sorry for everything."

"It wasn't your fault." Virginia argued, "Don't apologize." She waved a small 'goodbye' and softly closed the door.

Clive sat back down heavily on the couch. The camping trip had been hastily planned, mostly for the reason to let Clive take a few days off to heal from his recent injuries, and more importantly, the ones that were not physical. He still found it hard to believe that only three days ago he had-

"Honey, I know that look. Don't think about it, please. Such thoughts would only make it worse." Catherine delicately placed a slender hand on Clive's un-mangled shoulder, the drifter leaning into the touch. Knowing that the contact was wanted, Catherine wrapped her entire arm around Clive's back and rubbed it carefully, the drifter stared at the ground brokenly.

He tried to listen to his wife, but simply feigning ignorance was something he just could not do. He had no choice but to think about it, how only three days ago he had been submerged into his own personal Hell. Literally, and spiritually.

There were still a few things he had to sort out.

Clive reached into his pocket and pulled out a diminutive golden slab, dropping it onto their coffee table. Catherine looked at it, confused, and Clive could not help but feel his stomach turn at the sight. The Lust Jaw. Throughout his travels, it had served him well and faithfully. But the guardian of desire was anything but faithful, and Clive had learned that he had ended up serving _her_ much more effectively. It had almost cost him his very soul.

"Catherine, how many people did I kill?" He asked her emotionlessly.

"Clive!" Catherine scolded, "You must know, it wasn't your fault-"

Clive didn't seem to be listening. "Disregard that. How many people did I maim? Cripple? Mutilate?" He clenched one hand into a fist, and bit his lip. "I am a murderer."

Catherine did not know what to say, all she could do was deny what had truly happened. "You're not a murderer. You were influenced by _her_. You had no choice." She said quietly.

"Catherine!" He yelled with unhappy desperation, "The choice was mine, and I took it! I wanted to do it. I don't know why, but I did. I cannot keep this inside me. Please, I need to talk about this to someone, anyone…" Clive had to pause for a second to gather his thoughts, he was shivering slightly. "I love you, Catherine. You're the only one who can help me. You were there, you saw most of it, b-but there are other things you do not know about, and it is haunting me…" He removed his glasses to wipe away some tears of shame, his voice lowered to almost a whimper. "I have to tell someone, or it will surely kill me."

A tear ran down her cheek, splashing lightly onto the cold floor. "Tell me, then." She whispered.


	2. A Simple Commission

(A/N: Okay, this fic will start out lighthearted, but trust me, it will darken up soon enough. It will get bloody, very bloody. I might even sneak in some foul language too. This is a recount, meaning it has already happened. Heh. Enjoy!)

__

Seven days ago…

Volks drained his beer mug with one drawn out draught, looking at the four additions to his table through the bottom of the glass. The white foamy dregs gathered at the sides of the glass, and he lowered the container, fixing a lopsided grin to his visage. He wiped the liquid residue away from his lips with a hand and leant over to talk with the other people present. "I 'spose you guys are the drifters I've been asking about?" He said, hiccuping at the closure of his sentence.

A young girl dressed in a purplish-pink dress smiled politely, cheerful personage brightening the inn. "Yes sir. We heard that you needed assistance on some sort of task. We want to help."

"For a price." Added the silver-haired boy who had previously remained silent throughout the entire evening. He had his arms resting behind his head, lazily shoving his boots on the table. A glass of half-drunk water sat nearby, as he was deemed still too young to drink with the others.

The girl sighed deeply, showing slight annoyance to the youth with a sideways glance. "Jet has a point. Please tell us the details of your commission and we can come to a fair deal for all involved."

Volks narrowed his eye, scratching at the eye patch covering part of his face. "First things first. I heard you guys are outlaws." He informed them gruffly, causing a reaction on one side of the table. Particularly, one person on the other side of the table.

"Hey now!" A burly youth clad in the garb of the Baskar tribe proclaimed, "That title is open to much speculation!" He declared, almost spilling his ale on the quiet older man seated next to him.

Volks smirked, "You know, I don't really care. I've seen you blokes before, you appear to be decent enough people." He clicked the butt of his crutch on the ground, laying the supporting instrument against the table. "But let me tell you, this job won't be decent at all. You see, the people in this here town are traders and travelers by nature. We're a port town, and trade's just decided to pick itself up from a pretty big slump, you get what I mean?"

The quiet man nodded his understanding with a jovial smile. "Indeed. We were present during the slump, it is pleasing to know that such inertia had ceased." He said, tapping the side of his beer glass with a finger.

The trader snorted. "It might start all over again if you all don't do something about it." He announced unhappily, brushing back a fold of his red cape with one hand. "Let me explain. This place is usually full of very superstitious men, sailors and the like. Anything can be taken as an omen, especially a bad one, and one such omen has recently cropped up and scared away all our trade. At this rate, the town'll be as empty as it was before, rejuvenation or no."

Filgaia was repairing itself, to a certain degree. The sediments in the quicksand had settled down to a much more watery state, rain came often and was absorbed by the earth, revitalizing the tender foliage scattered across the wasteland. Sure, there were still bitter climates and unbearable heat, deserts abounded and scars marked the planet, but things were greener now, and it was deeply appreciated. For many drifters, it made things decidedly more pleasant as they continued to travel the wasteland.

The quiet man took a sip of his beer, looking thoughtful. "It must be quite an omen, if it were to have such a direct effect on people as to scare them away. What is the nature of this omen?" He asked with curiosity.

"It's a monster." Informed Volks, sparking the interest of the sulking boy who had only been half-listening to the trader. He slid his legs off the table and sat down normally, flicking his bandanna across his shoulder, as it had decided to settle in an unwanted place. "It has been attacking merchants and roving parties around the ravine near this town. Actually, we think it may have a nest up in the forest close by. So far, no-one's been injured, but who knows when the attacks will increase in ferocity? What I need you to do is find the beast and kill it, for all our safety. There's a seventeen thousand gella reward if you can bring me proof of its demise."

Jet appeared to be perplexed. "That's an awful lotta money for just a search-and-kill job. What's the catch?" He calmly demanded.

"Jet! Watch your tact!" Virginia reprimanded the boy with an angry glare. Volks started laughing. 

"Heheh. The kid's more perceptive than I thought. Yeah, there is a catch, a mighty big one." He explained, Jet looking smugly at Virginia. "It's Halloween today, you know." Volks added, receiving clueless looks from three out of the four drifters surrounding him.

"Oh," Said Gallows understandingly, "I guess that would explain a lot. Sailors and Baskars are the most superstitious people in Filgaia. Trust me, I know from first-hand experience."

"Gallows, what is 'Halloween'?" Virginia asked, always intrigued about things she didn't know.

"Well, it's …uh," Gallows took a moment to patch together an explanation, "It's like a day where just about anything can happen. The framework that separates the demons, humans and Guardians weakens just enough so that it can be breached with special effort. At least, that's what Granny says, although I never saw anything different about the day. Mostly mumbo-jumbo, if you ask me."

"Though," Virginia mused, "I expect the sailors would take the legend much more seriously. I see why you wish us to destroy the monster, and I would be more than happy to help bring back trade once again."

Jet ran through all the possibilities of receiving money this easily ever again, and came to a fairly quick conclusion. "I'm in." He announced.

"If our leader wants to accept the commission, I have no qualms about it. Monster eradication is my specialty, and I pledge my services as well." Said Clive, pushing the beer glass that he had recently emptied aside. 

"I wanna see what Granny's been rambling on about, this Halloween thingy. I always spent it in the village, but now maybe I'll get to see some really bizarre stuff." Gallows pondered, "We all accept."

Volks tossed a three thousand gella bag onto the table. "Here, you get this in the beginning, the rest you get after you prove to me that the creature is dead." The trader took up his crutch and hauled himself to his feet. "I'm trusting your reputation, you better not die now, you hear? This monster is vicious."

"You can count on us." Said Virginia, smiling. Volks merely mumbled a surly goodbye and hobbled to his Inn room, peg leg thumping on the wooden floorboards. "When shall we get started?" The female drifter inquired brightly to the rest of her posse.

Jet downed the rest of his drink with speed and stood up, dusting off his hands on his jeans. "Now's a good enough time as any." He answered bluntly.

It was noon in the town of Jolly Roger. The luminous Filgaian sun burned down hotly on the surface of the planet, yet the scorching heat was ignored by its inhabitants, having gotten used to the climate long ago. The drifter group left the Inn for the outskirts of the town, rested enough to begin their job right away. It would be best for the town if they left as soon as possible, and they were a little glad to do so.

Virginia had found out, much to her misfortune, that being a wanted outlaw made it practically impossible to work for a decent and legitimate pay. Her incredible and undying devotion to maintaining her integrity in the wastelands disallowed her to follow the path of a bandit, and though she still called herself a bounty hunter, it was her own bounty that tempted far too many people. Work was hideous and difficult to find, at times she felt guilty that she had dragged three other men into her own predicament. Well, at least they got to run a lot, even if it was from people that were formerly her colleagues. This one commission would put them on easy street for a couple of weeks, perhaps allowing them some time for a much needed break.

Clive lifted his fingers to his lips, blowing a short whistle that echoed across the long plain, stretching out in front of their vision, seemingly boundless. He waited a few seconds, and repeated himself, scanning the horizon. "Hasufel!" Clive cried when he received no answer.

"Arod!" Jet copied Clive's motions, frowning. "Where is that lousy horse?" He grumbled, as his results emulated Clive's.

Stybba trotted casually up to Virginia, the pure white mare glad to see her mistress. Virginia stroked the horse's mane fondly. "You should tame your ride better." She taunted the two horseless men playfully as she swung herself onto the animal's back. Gallows had already mounted his steed, Mearas, the ebony stallion always as happy as a clam. Jet sometimes wondered why Gallows had it so easy, while his own horse enjoyed throwing him as often as one would play a game. The boy drew up the conclusion that it had something to do with Gallows's priestly lineage and left it at that. Jet was already aware that Clive was not a horse person, or _any_ type of animal person, for that matter. At least he wasn't alone in his tribulation.

Gallows snickered, Mearas making a similar noise that was almost spooky to Jet. "Do we have to carry you two?" He politely questioned Jet, making the boy glower.

"No! I'll walk, if I have to." He declared, determined that his pride not suffer any injury.

"We _could_ tie a rope 'round your waist and drag you along, couldn't we Gallows?" Virginia suggested cheekily to the oversized priest, grasping Stybba's reigns.

"Maybe." Gallows contemplated, looking serious enough to agitate Jet to a minor degree.

"There is no need." Clive smiled as he heard a familiar whinny stretch its pitch across the wasteland, its visual counterpart appearing soon after. A dark brown stallion, sturdy in build, galloped over to Clive, a lighter brown chestnut horse trailing behind it. "Hasufel." Clive patted him in greeting.

"Arod, where the hell have you been?" A disgruntled Jet took Arod's reins and hoisted himself up into the saddle. Luckily, Arod did not protest.

"He was probably off making a lot of little baby horsies." Said Virginia, offering her opinion and smiling at the thought of a bunch of baby ponies.

"Lucky little…" Gallows trailed off into muttering something about his love life as of late.

Clive could look at his companions levelly now that he was at their height, sitting on Hasufel. "So, I suppose we travel northeast to the ravine? I estimate we should make it there by nightfall if we make haste."

"This'll be a cinch." Jet cracked his knuckles airily. "I hope this monster won't die too easily." He spurred his horse, Arod rushing off in the direction of the ravine.

"Overconfident, isn't he?" Said Virginia, exasperated.

"We will see whether or not that is so when we get there." Said Clive, trotting at a much slower pace than Jet. Virginia and Gallows easily kept up with him. "Until then, let us enjoy the trip." He advised.

Gallows grinned and pulled out his ukulele. "How about a good 'ol sing-a-long?" He plucked a few tabs, uneasiness flitting across Virginia and Clive's faces. "Anybody here know 'Home on the Range'?"

Jet shuddered. Three voices behind him began to sing loudly and very out of tune to the sound of a ukulele. It was tragic on the ears. He pushed Arod faster, if only to get away from the sound.

Though unbeknownst to everyone, this would be the last bit of mirth they would get for a _very_ long time…

For they were trotting into the heart of a nightmare.


	3. Stranger On The Road

Arod whickered gently, causing the quiet silver-haired boy who rode him to pat the stallion's flank lightly, the soft breeze of dusk dispelling the intense heat that had been present throughout the day. Still, he wiped beads of sweat from his brow, listening to the muted sounds of his companions talking a short distance behind him. At least they weren't singing anymore. Patches of bristly scrub dotted the dry, arid ground, offering small portions of greenery to an otherwise bleak landscape. Jet did not heed this, as he had walked through much more desolate places. He sometimes wondered that he, as the 'Filgaia Sample', should probably give more than a damn about the environment, but such notions usually stopped at the extermination of monsters to benefit the planet. He wasn't a tree-hugger, not that there were any trees to hug anyway.

They had ridden uneventfully for a few hours, unhindered by the ever-decreasing population of monsters that roamed the lands, drawing to extinction as Filgaia began to grow stronger. It didn't really matter if Jet had been forced to fight or not, he was strong enough to cull them without a second glance if he ever saw fit to do so.

Jet lowered his eyes to the ground, sighing inwardly. He was bored. Bored, bored, bored. In all honesty, he just couldn't wait until he had his Airget-lamh out again, splattering some monster heads against the wall. Usually he wasn't this bloodthirsty, but listening to Gallows, Virginia and Clive singing for the greater part of the afternoon instilled a feeling of bloodlust in his disposition.

"Well, hello. Fancy meeting you here."

Jet froze in his tracks, wearing a fixed expression of surprise on his features. Arod pawed at the ground, wondering why his master had ordered him to stop. That voice was way too familiar, and he wasn't positive if it was welcome or not.

Virginia squinted, positioning one hand above her hairline to block out the retreating sunlight. Jet had stopped moving, and she didn't know why. He dismounted, and she barely made out another figure loitering near his horse, Jet appeared to be talking with it. "Um, Gallows…" She began, trying to shake the Baskar out of an in-depth anecdote he was relaying to Clive.

"…So I picked up my newspaper and- … Hey, what is it?" He asked Virginia, smiling merrily.

"We have company." She said, indicating the stranger they were slowly approaching.

"Huh? Oh, so we do." Gallows followed the direction Virginia was pointing and spied what she was talking about. From what he could tell from where he was, the figure was masculine and sitting down, Jet was standing nearby, looking to be in the midst of a conversation with him.

"Let's go over to them." Virginia advised. "Are you coming, Clive?"

"Of course." The older drifter had been listening to the conversation with quiet deliberation, just a few paces behind. They prompted their horses to go faster, meeting up with Jet and the unfamiliar person.

Apparently, Jet had been so caught up in his boredom that he had neglected to notice his passage went directly through the stranger's campsite. Amused, he had waited until Jet was within close earshot and offered a greeting that startled the mounted drifter. The stranger smirked smarmily as recognition flitted across Jet's face. "You." Jet narrowed his eyes, becoming cautious.

"Ah, it is a pleasure to see you again too, Mr. Enduro." He purred, articulated voice lilting through the air. "Would you please walk around my campsite instead of straight through it? I would appreciate it."

Jet dismounted, the cracked earth crumbling as his feet hit the ground. "I thought you were dead." He said, looking the stranger over.

"And I thought _you _were a loner. Was I mistaken?" He inquired, watching three other drifters approach. Jet's gaze blackened, but he did not say any more. Of all the unlucky coincidences, he just had to run into…

"Hello." Greeted Virginia respectfully, "You're rather far from civilisation. Are you lost?"

He laughed graciously, standing up to his full height. "No milady, I'm just drifting through these parts, in await of some belated comrades, but I appreciate your concern." Virginia went slightly red at being called 'milady', she tugged at one of her white gloves timidly. "If I might be so bold as to ask for your name?" He enquired.

"Virginia Maxwell. This is Gallows Caradine," Gallows nodded his head at the sound of his name, "And Clive Winslett." She continued.

"A pleasure." Said Clive, adjusting his glasses.

"Likewise." Agreed the stranger. "I am already acquainted with Jet. My name is-"

"Ravendor, His name is Ravendor." Jet cut in with much distaste.

The man did indeed resemble his name. He was rather tall and exceedingly dark, black hair pulled back into a long ponytail, clean-shaven and eloquently groomed. His swanky voice mirrored the refined way he was dressed, yet in his hand there dangled a lit cigarette, sending swirls of grey smoke to haunt his figure, marring his persona somewhat. His ARM was lain carefully beside him, an immaculate-looking pistol reflected the dying light in its polished surface.

"That is right," He said to Jet, "I am Ravendor, a drifter, like yourselves. I am guessing you are headed to the northern ravine, correct?"

Virginia looked puzzled. "Yes. How do you know?"

Ravendor shrugged, fine ash from his cigarette spilling to the ground. "Rumour. There is quite a large one going around in Jolly Roger right now. I wish you luck on your venture." He picked up his weapon, rubbing it over with an oily white rag to remove non-existent dirt from its barrel, though it seemed like the gun could not get any cleaner than it was already.

"C'mon, let's go." Jet growled roughly, leading his horse away and gruffly motioning for his comrades to follow. Ravendor merely waved a small goodbye, looking like he was set up for the evening. Nonplussed at the callousness that Jet had shown to a former acquaintance, Virginia sped up to accompany him, her curiosity winning over caution at Jet's foul mood.

"Who was that?" She asked.

"An old associate." Said Jet irritably, "A stuck-up bastard who watched my back when I was still green. I thought he died years ago."

"I suppose wonders never cease." Mused Virginia, turning around to check if everyone was following them. Gallows looked like he was staring off into space, his horse doing all the navigating for him. Clive was in deep thought, one hand on his chin anxiously. He caught Virginia staring at him and he banished the expression, smiling comfortingly. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," Said Clive, uncertain, "I just experienced a subtle feeling of familiarity towards that person I cannot place. It might just be me, do not worry." The sun was setting over the deep red horizon, casting a long dark shadow over the faces of the four drifters. On Filgaia, the sunsets were always spectacularly beautiful, yet fleeting. Night draped its presence over the world, the first stars coming out to shine. The night air was warm, so they still traveled in comfort, trusting the sight of their horses to lead them away from hazards. A deep fissure embedded firmly into the ground stretched its way transversely beyond all sight, a huge fractured scar that was incapable of healing loomed overhead. 

"Should we search here?" They paused at the crumbling edge of the chasm, nothing but pure darkness dwelt at the bottom, as far as the eye could see. If one were to fall down that hole, they would never _ever_ see daylight again. It was not an agreeable thought.

"Perhaps," Said Clive with indecision, "The attacks are localized here, but would it not be better to surprise the beast at its lair? As I recall, our client mentioned that it lies within the neighboring forest nearby."

"That's a good idea." Said Gallows, splaying his hands in emphasis to his words, "Out here, the monster'll see us before we see it. At least we might get a terrain advantage if we stick to the woods." 

"Okay," Said Virginia, brushing back a long strand of hair, "The forest it is."

Gallows chuckled as they moved to find a suitable spot to leap the ravine, laughing at something only he found funny. "Heh, so we're out here in the badlands, in the middle of the night, on Halloween, hunting a viscous monster. My little bro would be wetting himself if he were here right now." Mearas stumbled on a stone, causing Gallows to heave forwards and almost fall off. "Hmm, it doesn't matter. We'll be fine." He guaranteed, straightening himself in the saddle.

"You tryin' to jinx us?" Jet tapped the ARM hanging at his side, an involuntary motion for good luck. He really hated the fact that he was slightly superstitious, but guessed that he had just been created that way, or maybe the person he had been modeled on shared similar beliefs?

Clive was already on the other side, Hasufel was a rather good jumper. He gestured for them to follow, the shadowy silhouette of the forest, one of the few still existing in the world, a small blob in the distance. He took his hands off the reigns for a short time to check his ARM's magazine was still loaded, prying it from out of the Gungnir's underbelly. Everything looked fine in the darkness, so he reattached the magazine and cleared the bolt with efficiency. Clive held the weapon up in the firing position, making a slight adjustment to his scope to maximize effectiveness for the lack of light. Pleased, he dropped the ARM to his side, slung across Hasufel's flank. He was ready.

xxx

Eyes sliding closed in almost cat-like contentment, Ravendor took a deep drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out with tranquil delight. A small fire burned warmly by his side, embers glowing dark red. The drifter smoothed out the creases on the frayed grey blanket he was reclining on, his pistol sheathed in its holster by his side. With a twitch of his fingers he knocked the ashes off his cigarette into the fire, as patient as one could be.

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So, dear Jet, rumour has not deceived me… You still live and thrive, such achievement for one so young…

"Uh, Boss?" Heavy footfalls approached the camp, a pair of voices muttered as they bumbled over rocks hidden by the night. They were welcomed by the heat from the fire, but not by the presence of its owner. Lying down and staring into the flames, one hand draped across a knee, Ravendor's gaze was sinisterly augmented by the smoke surrounding him, piercing through their bodies like a bullet.

"You are late." He said softly, venom dripping off every syllable.

Romero and Dario grimaced, a practically shredded map shared between them fluttering to the ground. "Um, we were sidetracked a little bit," Apologized Dario, bending down quickly to pick up the map. The part that showed their current position was missing from its corner, probably the reason they were delayed. "Really sorry, Boss."

"Well, it does not matter. They have already passed through here." Purred Ravendor, tossing the useless bit of his cigarette away from the camp. He lit up another one, a chain smoker that he was. "A girl in a pink dress, a young boy, a Baskar priest and a middle-aged man. Are they familiar?"

"Them!" Declared Romero, face growing taut with fury. "They're the ones who put Janus on ice! It must be!" He clenched his hands into fists, his uninjured eye flaring. Dario growled, clenching the map tightly in his fist.

"Calm down, gentlemen." Suggested the dark-haired drifter, motioning for the two lackeys to take a seat near him. "Revenge is sweet… but this," He unrolled a dirty piece of paper, a poster with four familiar faces printed upon it. "Is much sweeter." The two bandits leant over, gaping at the poster.

"They're criminals?!" Proclaimed Romero with incredulity, "Why didn't no-one tell me?!"

Dario traced a finger over the twenty-six thousand gella bounty, considering his options. "No," He said after a minute, "We couldn't take 'em. They'd annihilate us in a second." He shook his head negatively and leant back, aware of Ravendor's eyes drilling into him.

Ravendor sighed, bored with the simplistic ways that lackeys often thought. "You are thinking far too one-dimensionally, my friends. Brute force isn't everything, it is the mind that suffers the worst of pains, and breaks the easiest."

Romero and Dario looked clueless, sharing a glance at each other.

Ravendor rolled his cigarette to the tips of two fingers, pointing with his other hand to a certain person displayed on the poster, a kind, yet intelligent looking man in a trench coat. He pressed the point of the cigarette into the man's face, burning away the paper to leave a smoldering hole. "Clive Winslett," He stated with dark purpose, peering at the bandits carefully. "We strike, and the bounty is ours."

Laughter echoed across the plains, and it heralded doom.


	4. Hunt By Moonlight

The leaves whispered a voiceless cacophony, swaying delicately from their fragile perch in the trees. The sight of a forest was incredibly rare on a planet in such an advanced state of decay as Filgaia, every time Clive got a chance to look upon one he always felt that he was wasting something just being there. But tonight, the gathering of the sparse population of wood welcomed him with a much more ominous air that he had never experienced before. The four drifters waited along the outskirts of the forest, weapons drawn and prepared. They had released their horses and would continue on foot until they reached their quarry.

"Everyone ready?" Asked Virginia, both hands hovering closely to the twin pistols by her sides. Gallows saluted with his gun arm, hitting himself in the forehead with his Coyote, wincing from the pain. Jet grunted an incoherent reply and Clive made an affirming gesture, shifting his gun to one hand to do so.

"How should we go about this?" The sniper asked their leader calmly.

"Well," Thought Virginia, "If we go in together we'd be much safer from threat and set to fight if we are ambushed. But, if we all went in separately, we'd be able to cover much more ground…"

"Works for me." Said Jet, slinging his machinegun over his shoulder and marching off into the woods.

"Jet, wait!" Cried Virginia, running a few paces after him. The boy stopped and turned around, lavender eyes regarding the girl apathetically. "You can't just walk off, we haven't decided yet."

"I have. If anybody gets in danger or sees the monster, fire an Arcana into the air, and I'll come running. That should include everybody else as well." He ordered casually, "Any objections?"

"None." Said Clive as nobody seemed dissatisfied with Jet's plan.

"Happy hunting." Jet fixed all of them with a glance that masked his desire to see them all come out alive again, before disappearing into the grove of trees, out of sight.

Virginia held her hands out in front of her body in a subtle feminine pleading motion. "Please, all of you be careful. Don't be a hero, call for help the moment you need it." 

Clive pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, gripping his ARM tightly. It would be better this way, for him at least, because he was used to monster hunting alone, in the typical way of the marksman. Even if they were to be separated, they would still be close enough to give and receive aid if needed. It was his comrades he was worried about, especially Virginia, as she did not have as much experience as the other men in their party. Clive smiled privately, he figured that Jet would probably keep more than an eye on her, what he and Gallows had noticed the youth had been doing as of late.

Without giving any parting words, Clive strolled over to the very edge of the woods, the foliage clumped closely together instead of widely spread out like a usual woodland. For a fleeting moment, Clive wished that it wasn't so dark out, a tiny stab of puerile night fear streaking through his mind. Brushing it aside, he stepped in.

"Argh!" Virginia and Gallows jumped at the sound of the sniper keeling over in sudden pain, one hand clasped protectively at his head. He fell to one knee, using his ARM like a supporting crutch. Instantly, he found his friends behind him, the big Baskar hauling him to his feet.

"Are you alright?" He asked, releasing Clive from his grip.

Clive rubbed his head like somebody had struck him an invisible blow, feeling the beginning of a headache forming. "The ark scepter reacted when I entered the forest." He explained.

"From a Guardian?" Gallows pressed.

"I believe so." Clive removed his hand, the sharp pain fading as quickly as it arrived. It was strange, why had the others not felt it as well? It felt different to all the times he had entered a Guardian shrine, it was almost like something had tried to _pull_ him deeper into the forest. "I am alright." He reassured them, raising his hands in a warding gesture. Before they could comment he advanced back into the woods. He was not hindered again.

Virginia looked at Gallows. "Do _you_ feel anything?"

Gallows shook his head negatively. "Nope. But I do have baaaaad feeling about this." He muttered apprehensively.

The female drifter patted Gallows's muscular arm affectionately. "It'll be over soon, let's just get the job done." She pulled out her twin pistols and progressed forward, leaving the Baskar alone with his anxiety. 

He looked up at the sky, making a silent prayer to the luck Guardian that nothing would go wrong. "Hoo boy, Halloween…" At least, if he ever made it out alive, he'd have another good story to tell Shane. As long as he remained positive, nothing would go wrong. Cloaking himself with determination, he brought up the rear of the party, ARM geared to shoot any creature that moved.

xxx

__

What in the world was that?

He received no answer to his thoughts. Clive walked through pitch blackness, trying to stay in a certain direction, as he could barely see more than a few feet ahead. Experimentally, he focussed his will upon one of his mediums, a tiny ball of flame flickering to life in one gloved hand. Its illumination brightened the area somewhat, but did not help him to tell exactly what direction he was taking. The fire warmed his hands, yet refrained from burning him, as it was magically conjured. Arcana was a skill he was still getting used to. Being a scientist himself, the concept of magic was intriguing, but he left its application to those who understood it best, the Baskar priesthood. When he had received his first medium, the new ability to manipulate the elements fascinated him to no end, and many times he had tried to figure out precisely how the concept worked.

The air inside was stagnant and very close together, he found himself thankful that he did not suffer from claustrophobia, or he would have been miserable indeed. He increased the size of the fireball, and sensed a slight increase in the land, he was walking up a barely noticeable slope. He had to think about this. Clive slung his shotgun over his back, fastening it to himself by a detachable strap so he could use both his hands.

Clive fished through all his pockets, searching for something he could use to mark the land, in case he managed to end up in one big circle. He had a small travellers knife to be used in emergencies, but cutting up the last few remaining trees on the planet was not a very admirable thing to do, so he refrained from using it. Perhaps some of his medical supplied would suffice, so he looked through his medicines, antidotes, powders and things, stopping at a small sealed satchel. He opened the bag, the faint luminescence of some pixie dust glowing from within. He smiled, he had temporarily forgotten about the item's nocturnal properties. Clive took a small pinch of the remedy, sprinkling it at the foot of a tree, leaving a musty scattering of lustrous colour that could easily be seen in the darkness. He kept some to spare, and continued walking, reassured that he would be able to find his way back.

Every so often Clive heard faint rustlings in the underbrush out of his sight, accompanied by a hushed and usually grumbling voice. This almost made him chuckle, knowing that although he seemed to be alone, his friends were much closer than he could guess. One time he heard someone fall down and curse profanely, the sniper having to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. Remarkably, Clive was reminded of a game he used to play in his childhood called 'Murder in the Dark', where similar tactics were employed, his gun replaced with rocks and sticks. Being the quiet person that he was, he had won more often than lost.

So, as long as he kept his cool and enacted the game, he would emerge victorious. Clive counted his paces, stopping every ten trees or so to mark one with his pixie dust, looking back he saw the faint trail he had left. He was a sniper, so tracking came naturally to him. This was relatively fun.

__

Wait a second…

Clive looked down at the burning fireball in his hand.

__

What if this Arcana is warding away the monster whilst I track it? It would explain why I have not encountered it…

He heard a twig snap, accrediting it to come from one of his comrades. He snuffed out the flame, now scarcely seeing a few inches in front of him. Clive flapped a hand in front of his face, barely seeing the motion at all. Then it happened.

A second pulse, immaterial and localized in his head, began to beat, drawing from his ark scepter. Confused, he felt an intangible force compelling him forwards, his hold on free will wavered somewhat and he followed the prompts, finding his ARM in his hands, ready to fire.

__

If a Guardian wishes me to fight, then I must…

Clive froze, suddenly aware of a deep ragged breathing close by. He tensed abruptly, impulses telling him to fire in the direction of the sound, but memory won over and he concentrated on forming a large enough flare, hoping it would be big enough to work as a signal. Red eyes glowed in the shadow to his side, the sniper facing them, trigger finger becoming itchy.

Amazingly, the monster's eyes shed an amount of light bright enough for Clive to see by, and the form that met his eyes made his calm attitude fluctuate a bit. It was hauntingly beautiful, from a certain point of view, a huge grey wolf leered at Clive, its red eyes seeming to hold unknown intelligence, and fury. It stood squarely on four legs, bushy tail swishing carelessly from side to side, its long muzzle bearing a set of razor-sharp teeth. It padded over to him in an inquisitorial manner, yet growling deep and low in its throat. It made no move to attack, but Clive knew that it's demeanor could change at any time.

__

Should I risk a signal? Clive thought, _Or should I take the initiative?_

No, he had to call his friends. He promised Virginia he would, and he never broke a promise, no matter what. But, if he did so, it would leave him open for an attack, or even worse, scare the wolf away. That was the last thing he needed. Clive judged the amount of damage he could take with those sharp teeth and claws, and decided to risk it, for help would arrive shortly.

The sky above the drifter and wolf exploded in a burst of bright white light, Clive raised his hands to give the Arcana some extra power, dropping what defenses he had. Like a fireworks display, three other drifters bumbling in the shadows of the forest turned their attentions to the clamor, finding their destination pointed out to them.

"Devasta- augh!" The wolf slammed into Clive, furry mass knocking the drifter off his feet and onto the forest floor. It uttered an animalistic growl, acute claws digging into Clive's vest. His Gungnir slipped out of his grip, sliding to a location just out of his reach. The wolf snapped at Clive's face, the sniper tilting his neck to the side just enough to dodge the severe bite. Clive stretched his hand as far as it could reach to grab his ARM, the tip of his index finger touching the cold metal of the weapon. He was not close enough. His other hand shot out, grabbing the wolf's foreleg and tried to twist it to an unnatural angle, causing the animal to howl in pain. He brought his knee up to connect with it's ribcage, then rolled himself to the side, shoving the beast off him.

It recovered impossibly fast and leapt on Clive again as he grabbed the handle of his weapon. This left the drifter's shoulder pushed out and vulnerable, and the wolf saw this very well. It sunk it's teeth into the unprotected flesh, biting through Clive's trench coat and undershirt, making the sniper cry out in agony, blood oozing from the open wound. In automatic anger, Clive lifted the butt of his ARM, and swung the instrument like a club, smashing the steel-capped handle into the wolf's jaw. It released it's captive, shaking the stars out of its eyes from the heavy blow, Clive's blood dripping from it's mouth. He did not break the rhythm of the swing, and struck the wolf again and again, heaving himself to his feet as he did so.

Clive's good hand flew to hold his mangled shoulder together, unable to operate his ARM without both hands. It still made a functional club, though. He staggered back a few paces, leaning up against a tree, glaring death at the beast who seemed to regard him with just as much vehemence. Blood dripped down his arm onto the grass, the warm trickling liquid taking away Clive's strength as it departed. Even as he struggled to remain calm during the fight, his shoulder went numb with a sudden coldness similar to the dead.

__

Why… why aren't they here yet? They should be here by now…

The wolf howled, a deep mournful wail that chilled Clive to the bone. It's red-flecked fur spoiled the creature's almost regal look, the beast emitting a deadly snarl. Revelation flew through Clive's mind, the tendrils of an idea snaking its way within him.

__

I have not yet tested this attack, Guardians save me…

The monster charged him, dagger-like fangs poised to tear him to pieces. Clive planted himself deeply to the spot, releasing his wounded shoulder and reaching into his trench coat, removing and tossing several unidentifiable objects to the ground. His gaze flew up, as did his right hand, a mechanism hidden under his coat sleeve discharging a grappling iron. It snared the branch of the sturdy oak he stood under and lifted Clive into the air, off the ground. Though as numb as a limb under anesthetic, Clive forced his injured arm to function, wrapping the rope of his grapple around one wrist so he could handle his ARM with both hands. Feeling the force of his anger block out all external stimuli, Clive swung himself on the rope, unloading the contents of his magazine into the wolf below, the gatling onslaught riddling the animal with countless bullets. The wolf faltered and collapsed to the ground as Clive released himself from the rope, rolling away from the area just in time before the volley of bombs he had dropped previously exploded around the monster.

Clive ended up in a crouch away from the blast area in excruciating pain, he tottered and landed on his back, faintly seeing the tops of the trees pierce the night sky in their majesty. Blood pooled around the area of his shoulder, the warm liquid growing as cold as the flesh it had escaped from. Everything went dark as the wolf's ruby red gaze faded, it's last breath taken. Clive took deep and ragged gasps, the edges of his vision greying. He was losing too much blood…

"Oh my god! Clive!"

He fell into a darkness from which there was no escape.


	5. Loss Of Me

Shadows engulfed him, tying him down with invisible shackles onto night eternal, his body feeling paralyzed and stiff like a corpse. He pulled on the restraints, receiving a biting pain as a reply for his efforts, hazing into a world of nothing edged with loneliness. Deep within the void, he heard the faint whispers of a feminine voice, hushed with grief, loss, and a tiny flicker of hope.

__

It has been too long…

I missed you so much… 

A powerful déjà vu sensation hit him with ferocity, that voice, he must have heard it a million times before, but he could not remember where, or when. He went limp on his seat of nothingness, wishing that oblivion would simply let him rest. Evanescently, the kindly brushing of a silky and fragile hand across his face stole away his pain, but only briefly, leaving him alone again in the dark.

__

I searched for you everywhere, dearest, and now I have finally found you…

Clive…

Clive…

He strained against the shackles once more, fighting the intense urge to cry out in desperation for the benevolent person he had felt only momentarily, but whose presence had burnt a mark into his mind. Swallowing his pride, he called out for Catherine, Virginia, Gallows, Jet, anybody… 

All he heard were the pitiful echoes of his own voice, his heart sinking.

__

Clive…

Come back…

Come back, my love…

"No!" Clive jerked up without warning, tearing himself away from the dream world and the voice that inhabited it, shocking Virginia and Gallows who had been tending to the drifter's wounds whilst he had lain unconscious. He sat bolt upright, eyes wild with fear, suddenly alert despite the comatose state he emerged from. Vertigo took him, and Clive was forced to lie on his back by the strong guiding hand of the Baskar, exhausted.

"Whoa, you scared us," Said Gallows, grinding up a variety of herbs with a mortar and pestle busily, "Bad dreams, I guess?" Clive blinked tiredly, his vision blurry. He wasn't wearing his glasses, that he could tell. Like the waves on the beach, his memories of the nightmare experienced were washed away, leaving a blank slate. A soft breeze kicked up, and Clive felt it across his front, deprived of his coat and shirt as his friends treated his injury. He closed his eyes, sighing. Half his body felt numb and freezing cold, in spite of the warm weather they had been having.

"I'm… alive?" He coughed feebly, aware of a faint burning sensation in his left shoulder.

Virginia smiled in a way that showed deep concern for her friend. "We thought you'd gone away from us. Thank goodness you're alright."

Clive tried to twitch his left hand, but felt a slight warming pressure planted on his wrist, holding his arm down firmly and at a right angle. "Don't move." Ordered Jet's voice, the boy out of Clive's visual range.

"What happened?" He asked, throat strangely dry.

"Well, we don't really know." Admitted Gallows, shrugging lightly. "All of us met up, got lost for a bit, followed your trail and found you passed out next to this great big wolf. You slipped into a small coma and were knocked out all night, it really freaked us out." Gallows dug three fingers into the thick paste he had created, leaning over Clive and telling him to hold still. He coated the wound in the concoction, the injured drifter fisting his hand in the grass from the sharp stinging pain it created. "Sorry, but this will help." He reassured Clive. 

Gallows had some basic medical training, a prerequisite for priesthood, but was secretly amazed at how serious an injury one measly bite seemed to have become. Clive had lost an amazingly large amount of blood from the attack, and although the bite did not seem infected, it had drained most of the drifter's strength. He had never seen anything like this before. Gallows removed a ripe fruit from his inventory, dark blue berries appearing to emit a healing aura. "Can you eat these?" He questioned his patient gently.

Clive looked thoughtful for a moment, then he shook his head frailly. "I'm afraid not." He had the distinct feeling that if he ate anything, he'd end up violently ill soon after. But, he was thirsty, incredibly thirsty, now that he thought about it. "Do you have… any water?"

The Baskar nodded, glancing at Jet. "Give me your canteen." The boy removed a waterskin hanging from his side, passing it over to Gallows. He eased Clive into a sitting position and held the bottle to his lips, letting the man take a deep draught of the cooling liquid. He drunk as much as he could, though it felt like not enough, before he found himself in the midst of a coughing fit, jarring his injury badly. To help him somewhat, Gallows invoked his token medium and cast a healing Arcana over his friend, alleviating the irritation.

Virginina took a roll of bandages out of her bag, unraveling a sizeable length. "I'll bind the wound, it's the least I can do." She offered, nudging Gallows aside for some space. "Jet, hold him down."

"Thank you." Croaked Clive, relaxing. A ring of deep tooth marks encircled the flesh of his shoulder, causing deep bruising to the surrounding area and an uncanny coldness in the limb that was unaccountable for. Jet stretched out Clive's arm for her, as he was unable to do so himself, and Virginia carefully wrapped the white cloth around it, trying to ignore the groans of pain her friend was emitting as she did. She finished up tidily, securing the end up with a hairpin, and observed her work proudly.

The Baskarian medicine began to take its effect, a small sparkle of strength awoke inside Clive, clearing away groggy feelings of disorientation, allowing the drifter to take in his surroundings with better clarity. It was early morning just outside the forest's limits, he must have been carried there last night. A fine layer of dew coated the ground, soon to be evaporated by the coming heat, glistening ephemerally on the faded green grass. His vision was still murky, and he felt around the ground for his glasses that Virginia handed to him solemnly. He put them on and touched the bandaged shoulder delicately, numbness blocking out the sensation. Clive hauled himself to his feet, staggering again from the giddiness it brought, but remained standing.

He suddenly remembered something. "The wolf! Is it-"

"Deader than a doornail." Jet finished off, slightly grudgingly, because he didn't get a chance to fight when he desperately wanted to. To prove his point Jet searched his pockets, obtaining a small white object that he showed to Clive. It was a long and pointed tooth, broken at the base, but curved just a little bit at the end so, speaking from a biological point of view, an advantage in hunting would be given to the animal. Jet was keeping it as proof of their deed for Volks, so they could claim their reward. As far as the group was concerned, they let Jet handle all the money problems, even though he was technically the youngest and least mathematically inclined. But Jet knew money, that was all there was to it.

"Yeah," Added Gallows, "We take the job but you do all the dirty work. I'll hafta buy you a drink at the next pub we get to." He said.

Clive's clothes were folded neatly beside him, and he pulled on his shirt, carefully doing up the buttons. The piece of fabric had slashed holes torn into it from last night, and Clive supposed he'd have to purchase a new one soon. His coat looked alright, nothing that a little stitching couldn't fix, so he shrugged it back on, feeling particularly more comfortable than before. "I feel better now," He said reassuringly, lying just a tiny little bit, "Shall we go?" He took a shaky step, wobbling slightly.

The female drifter looked concerned. "Don't overdo it, Clive. You lost way too much blood last night."

"A trifling matter. I have been through much worse." The sniper tried to look indifferent, but his pallid and drained complexion spoke otherwise. "But I will be careful, I promise."

Jet procured a tin can and a pocket knife, flicking out his trusty spork. He settled himself down and peeled back the lid, serving himself his own meal. "We leave after breakfast." He said.

Breakfast? Blech. Clive didn't feel too good again. He hadn't eaten for ages and was practically starving, but the thought of food just made him feel queasy. Sickness would do that to you, he thought. He'd just have to live with it until he got better. Or die of starvation, either way.

So they all ate breakfast, except for Clive, who watched and drunk a little water from his own canteen, the beginning of a new day warming their backs and enlightening the landscape with its brilliance. Gallows summoned their horses with expertise, packing away their stuff on the mounts, because technically it was Clive's turn to do it, but the Baskar volunteered himself to let the sniper take a rest and recuperate. Clive looked over the damages to his ARM, apart for a little nick in the handle, it was unhurt. It put part of his mind at peace, paying for maintenance was out of his price range right now. 

"Heh, seventeen thousand gella in the bag, an' I didn't even have to do a thing." Jet contemplated after he filled his stomach, "Best dough I ever made."

"Yes," Agreed Virginia, looking into her lap, "Work is hard to come by for us. I'm sorry if I made things too difficult…"

"Nah," Argued Gallows, "It ain't difficult, just a challenge. And challenges are good, you know, it builds character."

Relieved that her friends did not fault her, Virginia set her food down and fixed up her hair, mussed up from the hunt last night. "I'm glad we were able to do this, it has been too long…"

Clive dropped his canteen, the bottle falling to the ground. He wore an expression of horror, staring thunderstruck at Virginia. He tried to say something, but his vocal chords were stuck in place.

__

It has been too long…

"W-what… did… you say?" He stuttered after a few attempts at speech, the memory of his nightmare smacking him in the face. There was something about those words, that voice, it haunted him to no end. A memory flashed through his mind, and for the most transient of seconds Clive lost himself, it was almost like… like he was somebody else. The sensation vanished abruptly and he bit his lip, confused and more than a little frightened.

"Pardon?" Asked Virginia, "I said-"

"No, never mind," Stammered Clive, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking, "My mistake, my mistake." He picked up his bottle again, taking another drink to calm his nerves. It had been so long since he had last been plagued with nightmares, and even so, nothing of that frightful caliber. He wanted to know what it was, what it meant, who owned that sweet voice, but his sickness prevented him from thinking too straight. It infuriated him deeply.

Outwardly, all he did was shake his head and clench his canteen tightly, not noticing the puncture marks he placed in it.


	6. Inexplicable Fear

Virginia rolled up her sleeping bag, tying it into a tight little bundle and stashing it safely next to her stuff. They were heading back to Jolly Roger today to claim their bounty, later to have a celebratory party at the Inn, something she really looked forward to. Gallows was doing all the work and Jet had gone off to find a convenient tree, so she sat beside her things in quiet meditation, thinking about the recent future.

Even though Jet often bossed them around and Clive's advice was highly looked up to, it was she who lead the group, their little gang, and had to predict and plan for their future endeavors. Stressing work, but it had to be done. The best bet they had for the chance of another commission probably lay in Little Twister, but the heat still hadn't died down from the 'misunderstanding' they had had at the Ark of Destiny, and the place was filled with honorless drifters eager to lock them away for the murder of Lamium, which was entirely not their fault.

There was a short rustling of grass, and Clive took a seat next to her, in order to stay out of the way of Gallows's packing. "Musing over the future?" He asked her quietly, his injured arm folded protectively across his stomach. The memory of the nightmare still plagued him, but like all nightmares, as time wore on, the disturbing impact of it's presence withered.

Virginia nodded sullenly. "I don't really know what to do." She admitted, hands folded in her lap. "Whenever I try to think about it, my understanding just gets fuzzier. Maybe I shouldn't be the one to lead this group. You or Jet, even Gallows could do better."

"Don't demean yourself as such." Clive replied, trying to cheer Virginia up, "You are only young. How long have you drifted thus far? Probably only a year or so, am I right?"

"Yeah, that's about it." She agreed, "But I don't get how that helps-"

Clive raised his right hand to silence her, smiling knowingly. "I have wandered Filgaia for almost as long as you have lived, Virginia. It is only natural that I have experienced more. Gallows is similar, to a lesser extent. And Jet," Clive felt a pang of empathy for the boy, "He may be younger than you are, but drifting is the only life he has known. Experience is the only way to gain the skills you need to survive in this wasteland, and the skills that you want can only be attained by leading us to our goal. In effect, the least qualified of us is the one we must set our hopes and dreams on, for only future prospects can take us over the horizon."

"So, you're saying this is the only way I'll learn?" Virginia questioned.

"That is exactly what I am saying." Answered Clive, adjusting his glasses. "If it is of any consolation to you, let me just say how much further along the track you have come in comparison to my efforts back then."

Virginia looked genuinely interested. "So, what were _you_ like when you were eighteen?"

Clive suddenly felt much more awkward. "Ah, I do believe I spent most of that year either drunk or attending shameless parties in the midst of the night. I was part of a coterie with several outlandish liturgies and practices." He admitted this with a perfectly straight face, which forced Virginia to cover her mouth to smother away giggles, Clive's statement conjuring up several hilarious mental pictures. She supposed everyone went through unusual phases in their youth, but using Clive as an example was just too much for her to bear.

"And here I was thinking that you were born this way." She laughed, cheering up.

"Born what way?" He asked, one eyebrow raised, the rapping of his fingers on his almost empty canteen making a hollow noise.

Virginia immediately shut up. "I'm not saying anything." She smiled through clenched teeth. Jet decided to return to the campsite, swinging his boomerang around in a bored manner. He threw it once, and the tool came back, almost shaving Gallows's side in the process. The Baskar looked surprised for a moment, then shot Jet a glance that explained his thoughts far greater than words ever could have done

"Do you feel better?" Clive said, regarding Virginia's positive change in demeanor. Unconsciously, he tried to rub warmth back into his arm, getting no results.

"Yes," She said before frowning, bothered. "But you know, _I'm_ the one who's supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"But I do not require it," He countered, smiling fondly, "You needn't fuss over me."

Gallows grabbed the stuff Virginia was sitting next to, tapping her on the shoulder. "We're leaving." He informed them, pointing to their waiting horses, geared up and ready to go. Clive stood up after a struggle, graciously extending his good hand to help Virginia up. She almost took it, but then brushed it aside, jumping to her feet without aid.

Clive took uneasy steps over to his horse, arms spaced slightly away from his sides to keep his balance. He felt clunky and uncoordinated, like he wasn't moving about in the way he was supposed to, it felt alien to him somehow. "Hasufel, come." He ordered, beckoning. The disobedient horse stood glued to the spot, refusing to move. He had its ears set back, as if alarmed by something. Looking annoyed, Clive beckoned again with a little more impetus. "Come, Hasufel."

Hasufel snorted warily, trotting a few steps away from his master, shaking his head from side to side. Clive grew tired of waiting for the animal so he treaded over to him, firmly grabbing a hold of his reigns and pulling it forward.

The horse whinnied in great distress, rearing up and throwing Clive to the ground, as he was still holding Hasufel's restraining equipment. He pranced around in a fit of unexplained hysteria before turning tail and fleeing from the group, dashing off as fast as he could run, away from the forest and his owner. Clive landed on his back and did not get up again, suppressing the urge to curse uncharacteristically. A ring of three companions surrounded the sniper and helped him to his feet, wondering what had gotten into the horse to make him throw his own master. Hasufel wasn't the most tamed of mounts, but still…

"I… seem to be getting hurt a lot recently." Murmured Clive, brushing grass off his coat.

"You sure spooked 'im, whatever it was you did." Said Jet, running a hand through his silver-coloured hair.

"I didn't do anything." Explained Clive, suddenly feeling wearied.

Gallows looked over the other horses. They too, appeared to be in some form of distress, glancing anxiously around the campsite and especially at Clive. Gallows took Stybba's reigns and gently led the horse over to Clive, Stybba's steps becoming even more tense as she drew closer to the sniper. "Hey, hold these please, Clive." Said Gallows, extending the reigns to his friend.

Stybba, upon seeing what was going to transpire, neighed fearfully and tried to tear herself away from Gallows's hands. However, the big Baskar's strength won through and with a little bit of calming on Virginia's part, Stybba became docile, although a bit unsettled and jumpy.

"That does it," Proclaimed Gallows, "You're definitely scaring the horses."

"How?" Asked Clive, "I am not doing anything…"

Moving to his own horse, Gallows patted the dark stallion with confidence, grinning in his trademark fashion. "Don't worry, Mearas won't run off, right buddy?" The horse looked uncertain, but continued to stand still. "You can ride with us, if you don't want to walk. I don't advise it, 'cause you're hurt…"

Clive nodded his thanks, setting his foot in the stirrup and feeling Mearas shudder from the contact. He frowned, but swung his weight onto the saddle anyway. Gallows quickly leant over near the horse's face and whispered a few incoherent words in the Baskarian tongue to him, calming Mearas down and allowing him to clamber on alongside Clive. Virginia and Jet mounted their own steeds, and they were set to go.

Arod decided to throw his master off, if anything for the stupefied look Jet offered him.

They set off into the morning sun, four drifters among three palfreys, a beautiful soothing breeze blowing back their hair as they rode with speed to Jolly Roger. Clive enjoyed the feel of the wind on his face, it was like it blew away all his troubles, his injury, the nightmare… Things would get better. He'd heal up fast and he concluded the awful dream had been the effect of his coma-like state, it was all over. 

But he was _very_ wrong.

It was just beginning.


	7. Desire's Sorrow

"What do you mean Volks isn't here?!" Yelled Gallows in frustration, slamming his fist down on the table.

"Hey, calm down, 'hon." Hannah, the owner of the Bell Star Inn responded with a lively smile, "He'll be back soon enough, in a few days, I think."

They had managed to reach Jolly Roger with haste, at around about the time the bright sun had reached it's peak in the clear blue sky, noontime. As the sun took its ascent, Clive began to feel much healthier, the strange frost that clung to him dissipating and leaving no lasting mark. If it weren't for the slight stiffness in his arm, he would have felt completely healed. Gallows had kept his word and bought him a fairly expensive drink, so he sat in the corner and tried to think about nicer things than what had happened recently in his life.

Gallows knocked back his long lock of white hair in irritation. "Where did he go?" He grumbled, his finger tracing little circles on the surface of the table.

Hannah brightened, pulling out a strip of lined paper from a pocket in her dress. "Oh yes! Volks gave me this before he left, in case you all came back early." She scanned the spidery writing thoroughly. "It says that he went to Claiborne for a few days to visit Martina and her mother. He's a friend of the family, you see."

"I guess he didn't expect us to finish so quickly." Said Virginia, adding her input.

Gallows turned to the rest of the posse. "So what do we do now? Leader?" He glanced at Virginia for an answer.

"We could go to Claiborne, or we could just stay here. It's a group decision." She rationalized, looking over everyone present, trying to be leader-like. "Who feels like a trip to Westwood?"

Jet quickly calculated that the train fare to Westwood would be decidedly cheaper than a stay at the Inn. "Sure, whatever." He deadpanned. He didn't really care, as long as he got a window seat.

Gallows's aggravation was replaced with a Cheshire Cat's grin, thinking about the cute little lady who lived there, Becky was her name, his most recent girlfriend. He was actually getting somewhere with this one, and wanted to see her again. "Alright!" He said with a tad too much agreeability.

"I would like to speak to Dessinsey over the behavior of Hasufel." Said Clive, "Visiting Claiborne would be mutually beneficial." He read the look Virginia gave him and added; "Don't worry, I am in a good enough condition to travel."

"Okay, so, hey," Announced Hannah, "Stay for lunch, it'll make up for the extra trip you need to take, my treat."

"Thank you very much." Replied Virginia gratefully.

Lunch was served. The three drifters ate their fill and then some, showing their very healthy appetites. Who knew Jet could eat so much? Probably because the food was free and no check would arrive to taunt him. He also ate Clive's share, because the sniper still had absolutely no desire to eat anything. He looked at the quickly disappearing sandwiches with distaste. Though he did like peanut butter, the food repulsed him in some way. Why didn't they have any… any…

Any what?

Clive blinked, mystified. He was starving, but he didn't know what he wanted. He hoped he hadn't developed some kind of disorder and was secretly glad when they had all finished stuffing themselves. 

Before leaving, he refilled his empty canteen at a sink in the inn, remaining exceedingly thirsty despite all he had drunk in the day. He walked down the flight of stairs leading to the main area of the inn, seeing Virginia seated alone at a table, a bag of ARM maintenance tools unzipped and its contents scattered around her twin pistols, unassembled and pulled apart. With her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth in intense concentration, Clive broke it by asking her what she was doing.

"The firing pin in my Rapier ARM is bent a teensy bit. Its been making me misfire, so I'm trying to fix it." Clive drew himself a chair and looked over the gun fragments with interest. Her ARM was certainly built differently, but he could see some small similarities in-between.

"Do you need assistance?" He asked.

Virginia held up the firing pin, it was indeed slanting a little to the left. "I don't suppose you have any replacements for this?"

"No," He replied negatively, "But I can repair the one you already own." Clive pulled off his gloves so he could handle the equipment better, he took the pin and inspected it closely. The metal wasn't made of any particularly tough alloy, so he thought he might be able to simply straighten it using brute force. He laid it on the edge of the table, its unusual shape preventing it from rolling off. He held out his hand for Virginia's other gun, which she passed to him helpfully.

But as soon as his bare fingers touched the handle, he pulled it away as if he had been inflicted pain, shaking his hand like it had been burnt. It felt as if the gun had recently been heated in a furnace. A reddish tinge appeared over the skin that had made contact with the weapon, a light scorch mark. "Agh… What is your ARM made of?" He moaned, hurting.

"Um, just dragon fossils," Said Virginia, looking in sympathy at Clive's burnt hand, "And a plating of silver as well."

"Are you sure?" He continued, putting his gloves back on to hide the red mark. Well, that had never happened before.

"Yes, I am. I'm sorry, it looked like it hurt you." Apologized Virginia, moving the weapon away so Clive couldn't harm himself again.

"Just for a second. Here, I'll fix it now." Said Clive, trying to change the subject. He picked up Virginia's weapon again, protected this time by his gloves against whatever had injured him, and banged the metal handle on the length of the bent pin, straightening it out into a flat state. It was not the best repair, but a good one for the price, nothing.

"Wow, thanks Clive. You're a lifesaver!" Virginia reconnected the parts of her gun to a whole, spinning it around with her finger before slinging it back into its holster, decorated with a floral pattern. Clive merely hid his scalded hand behind his back, ignoring the pain.

"Are you all done yet?" Virginia and Clive jumped at the unexpected comment, radiated from the young drifter in the corner, leaning against the wall. Jet smiled evilly, amused at succeeding to startle Virginia.

"How long have you been there?! Don't sneak up on us!" She fumed at him, Clive falling silent.

"Hey, I was in the room before both of you came in, you're just half-blind, that's all." Jet sauntered over to the exit, a small smirk playing on his features. "Gallows is waiting outside. He kept rambling on about his girlfriend until I had to come in here before I die of self-inflicted causes." He jerked his thumb outside. "Go out there and shut him up."

"Yes, we should go." Affirmed Clive, leaving the building. That left Virginia and Jet alone together.

"You're worried about him." Jet stated bluntly.

"What, jealous?" Smiled Virginia playfully.

"No," Said Jet, shaking his head solemnly. "I am too."

Virginia had to do a double take. "What?" She did not expect to hear that coming from Jet, of all people.

Jet walked up to Virginia, close enough to whisper quietly and still be heard. Virginia took a step back, not expecting him to move so close. "I am what I am, even if I hate it, I am an android." He chuckled at this, it just felt so weird to admit out loud. "So I get hunches sometimes, unexplainable ones. There's something different about 'im, and I don't know if it's a good thing. I think lover boy out there sees it too, that's why he won't shut up his prattling." 

Virginia placed her hand on his shoulder, which Jet shrugged off immediately. "I'll keep an eye on him." 

Thinking that the mood was becoming too dark for her liking, Virginia grabbed Jet's bandanna roughly and dragged him outside, laughing at the protests and threats he made. "C'mon! C'mon! We can get to Claiborne before dark if we hurry!"

"That's no reason to- ugh- Let go of me dammit!" 

His cries went unheeded.

xxx

She sat on the empty and sepulchral altar in the Fallen Sanctuary, swinging her slender legs off the edge of the steep staircase, the whispering wind her only comfort. Behind her lay the great clawed emblem of the Desire Guardian, crumbling, but still regal in it's splendor. Her long violet hair fell in a cascade down her back and trailed the floor, ending in a vibrant pinkish colour. She wore a grey flowing robe that caught the wind in certain key places, augmenting the quiet sorrow that emanated from her spirit. She was, in the deepest of truths, ethereally beautiful.

"Epoch after epoch, you hung in the void, to be denied life, a punishment for your deeds. I thought I would never see you again, love, but then…" With fine tapered fingers she stroked an extraordinarily aged tool, probably older than the sanctuary she sat in herself, "You came back. You promised you would, and you did. I have waited for far too long for your return…"

Her eyes misted over with tears, so she rubbed at them, the ruby iris of her eyes sparkling through the crystalline liquid. She shook her head, as if to clear away her sorrowful thoughts. In a sighing wistful voice she added, "So your name is Clive now. How strange, it fits you somehow… Please Clive, I have planted in you the seed of desire, unblock the link to the past and come, come back to me. I will be waiting."

She looked up in the sky, to the burning light of day. It felt as if her own light had burnt out, and it would never come back, not as long as Filgaia remained the way it was. One of the most powerful beings on the planet she was, but, her frailty exceeded her strength more often, as long as people fought their desires and denied their true self. Luceid watched the fluffy voyages of the pure white clouds flit across the horizon and smiled, soon enough, it would be a full moon tonight.


	8. Propaganda On The Train

Virginia grinned impishly, dropping a handful of coins onto the ticket vendor's bench at Midland Station. "Four to Westwood, please." She chirped, in a very happy mood.

Miles smiled bashfully, his conductor's hat pulled downward to hide his blush. How lucky he was to always talk with the pretty ones, drifters or no. "Westwood? Four adults, right?" He wondered if this one was available, but then noticed the somber looking youth standing behind her and eyeing him in a particularly unfriendly way, canceling his train of thought. Miles's hopes fell. Yes, lots of pretty girls, but none of them free to date.

"Yes, I guess so." Replied Virginia. They weren't really sure about Jet's age, but he was unquestionably mature enough to be counted as an adult. "Oh, and I have this too." She flashed her golden membership card at Miles, found in one of the many ruins she had trekked through. It always shaved off a goodly amount of expenses, to her delight. A tumbleweed blew past the station, vacant except for the four drifters and vendor. Most people had decided that travel by the newly rediscovered sea, quickly replacing the tides of quicksand, was much more enjoyable, and the fact that Jolly Roger was a port town in the first place made things even better. The rail lines centered around Filgaia were now the new system in decay, ironically enough.

"Okay then," Miles calculated their fare in his head, drumming his fingers on his bench as he did so. "Four of you to Westwood at an adult's price, your card cutting prices in half, that's fifteen gella each, making for a sum total of sixty gella, please." He drew a few silver coins out of Virginia's pile, pushing the rest back to her and procuring four tickets for them. "Here you go. Enjoy your trip."

Virginia took her spare money back, picking up her tickets and skipping over to Gallows and Clive, waiting patiently at the platform. She almost bumped into Jet, who was standing behind her. She passed him his ticket and ran to the others. He looked down at the piece of paper, smiling bemusedly. She had given him his window seat. How did she know he wanted that? Weird.

Clive glanced up at the large clock standing on the platform. "The train should be here in a few minutes." He said as Virginia handed out the rest of the tickets.

Gallows snickered quietly, holding a hand up to his mouth. "Hey Ginny, what's with the happy mood?"

Virginia cocked her head to one side, uncertain. "What? Aren't I always happy like this?"

Gallows smiled like suddenly all the mysteries of the world had become apparent to him. "I know! Heheheheh… What's-his-face is gonna be here soon, no wonder."

"Who?" Prodded Virginia, having the niggling thought that Gallows was assuming something he shouldn't be.

"That guy you're always with when we're on the rail… Um, Tony's his name, your booooyfriend!" He stretched the word, in the hopes of getting his desired reaction.

"He is not!" Cried Virginia, going red. "I have absolutely _no_ interest in him." 

"Oh, so I am right after all," Chortled the Baskar, "Then you _do_ like Jet."

"WHA-AT?!" The two young drifters hollered at the same time. In perfect sync with each other, their eyes met and they forced themselves to look the other way, furious. Gallows had just stepped into a no-man's-land, the poisonous glare Virginia and Jet simultaneously gave him seemed to sign his death warrant. His blood ran colder than ice as the two started to close in on him, hands going to their ARMs…

"You will…" Began Virginia.

"…Die." Finished Jet. 

Luckily, Clive ran bravely to the rescue, placing himself between the two sides and thrusting his good arm out to keep both of them away from each other. "Now, let's not be infantile." He warned, mediating. "We are all adults here, please act as such."

Jet 'hmphed', crossing his arms and looking away from Gallows and Virginia. "'Not worth my time, anyway." He said maliciously.

"I advise you don't sleep for awhile, Gallows," Fumed Virginia, "You might just wake up with a nasty shock. Or," She continued, "A few limbs missing."

"Eh heh…" Laughed Gallows, nervously tugging on the side of his jacket.

A whistle blew in the distance, followed by the ringing of a bell, and Clive was eternally grateful that the trains had decided to run on time today. They were, literally, saved by the bell. The train pulled up to the platform, steam from the engine hissing about the wheels and making a general ruckus. A young and pleasant-looking man in a green uniform stepped onto the platform, ushering them onto the waiting rail cars.

"Welcome to Filgaia Rails," He beamed, saluting, "Come aboard and watch your step."

Seeing this as a good way to exit his inopportune situation, Gallows jumped aboard and headed to a car as far away from Virginia and Jet as possible. He had good cause to do so. Gallantly, Tony helped Virginia over the gap in the platform, taking her hand and leading her inside. Gallows stuck his head out the window of his carriage and made uncouth whooping noises, followed by kissy faces. Virginia flushed deep red to her roots and silently swore that she would extract revenge upon her drifting companion, even if it killed her. The sharp edge of Jet's red boomerang sheared by the Baskar's face, delivering him a curt message to shut the hell up.

Clive waited until everybody else was on board before hopping on himself, the vibrations of the train under his feet telling him they were going to depart soon. He walked down the corridor, one of the cabin doors left ajar for him to enter. The other was tightly locked with a 'Do not disturb' sign jammed on the doorknob. The piece of cardboard was still swinging, so it must've been placed there only moments ago. Clive sidled up to the locked door and knocked, smiling distractedly.

"Nobody's here!" Yelled a muffled voice that was undoubtedly Gallows's.

"Indeed? Then to whom am I speaking?" He asked, finding himself quite entertained by this.

"Urrrmmm… I'm- ah, a recording! Yeah, that's it!" Explained Gallows frantically.

Clive raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry, it is only me, Clive."

"Huh?" There was the sound of somebody heavy getting up, and a fiddling noise as the locked door was opened. Gallows sighed with relief, knowing he was off the hook. "Oh, thank the Guardians, it's you."

Clive looked Gallows in the eye. "Sometimes you go too far." He said, making Gallows cringe a little.

"It was only a bit of fun," Pouted the Baskar, "How was I to know they'd be so touchy over it? Besides, you know I'm right."

"Maybe," Retorted Clive, "But be quiet about it until _they_ figure it out." He shut the door, locking Gallows in and himself out. Absently, he rubbed his hurt shoulder, heading for the other cabin that was marked on the ticket for his usage.

Virginia and Jet were seated along the same bench, one was staring listlessly out the window and the other smiled as he entered the room. "This trip shouldn't take long, Claiborne isn't that far away." She said, leaning backwards on the bench, staring at the ceiling.

Clive sat down on the other window seat, opposite from Jet. He glanced out the window, resting his chin on his palm, observing the lateness of the afternoon. Similar to that, he was beginning to feel tired once more. He slumped his shoulders, exhaling deeply. "It seems," He murmured, half to himself, half to the others, "That as the day wanes, so too does my health." 

"Do you feel sick again?" Virginia asked kindly. Clive just nodded, eyes still looking out at the landscape. There was nothing any of them could do to help him, so Clive just remained quiet, letting the train take him away to their destination. The gentle vibrations also took him somewhere else as well, into a small nap, the tired drifter sinking into a more relaxed position, light snores emanating from his person.

Virginia tapped Jet on the shoulder, getting the boy's attention. His eyes flicked momentarily over to the girl before resuming their position at the window. "What?" He whispered, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Clive.

"I've decided that after we get our money, we're taking him back to Humphrey's Peak until he feels better." She whispered back to him, pointing at the dozing sniper.

"Fine," Replied Jet, "Whatever you want."

The train ride continued in silence.


	9. Decay

_"…I cannot linger here any longer. Not as long as my mission remains unfulfilled."_

_"Indeed. I wish it not, for this smouldering purgatory mars the splendour of your resolve, darling."_

_"…Dear Luceid, ever shall you remain by my side, as long as the breath within me does not fade. We shall flee from here together, and by the morn, blood will again be spilled, soul leaked upon the ground and lost."_

_"The blood of the three, the innocent one, the knight, the outcast, the blood of the hopeful, yes, I yearn for it so…"_

_"You do not desire alone. Come Luceid! Let us dance the last dance! Up the falling staircase, out of the pits of Hell!"_

_"Through hope and courage, through love and death. Let desire forge a blade of conviction, smelted in unbridled passion! My love! Take to your wings and leap!"_

xxx

Poke.

"…"

Poke. Poke.

"..."

Clive made a noise of protest, and rolled over, one leg dangling precariously off his seat. He threatened to fall onto the floor if he was not careful.

"U-hoo… Clive…" Virginia prodded him again, with less than satisfactory results. They had arrived at their destination, and if they didn't hurry, they would end up in a place they didn't want to be. Their last task was to wake the comatose drifter whose light nap had become a deep snooze. Seeing no other option, Virginia pinched Clive gently on the cheek, bringing the man around readily enough.

Clive rubbed his reddened cheek tenderly, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "Wh… What was that for?" He yawned.

"Good evening," Said Virginia, "Time to get up. We're here." Clive looked out the window, the yellowed and peeling sign of Westwood station meeting his eye.

He suddenly remembered where he was. "I accidentally… fell asleep? Oh my, that has not happened for quite some time…." He yawned again, getting up from his makeshift bed. Without warning, an appalling feeling of nausea overtook him and he had to lean against the wall to continue standing up. He felt like he would throw up, but not having eaten anything for so long disallowed him to do so.

"Uh-oh." Virginia shook Clive's side sensitively. "Has it gotten worse? Can you stand?"

"…Yes," Replied Clive through slight gasping, "And yes…" With an incredible amount of effort, he stood without aid, definitely the worse for wear.

"Wait here, I'll go get help." She raced out of the cabin, returning soon after with Gallows trailing behind her. The big Baskar started when he saw Clive, rushing over to him and grabbing his good arm for support.

Gallows's eyes widened in shock as an invisible and indescribable current of energy passed from Clive's body to his own, circulating once through his aura and re-entering the sickened drifter. He almost let go from surprise.

Gallows was a Baskar, what everybody knew from common knowledge, but as part of the priesthood bloodline, he had abilities, though dimmed from his lack of studying, that showed him more than what his senses could provide. Shane's skill was a hundred bazillion times stronger than his own, but nevertheless, it existed. Baskars are taught the concept of aura from birth, the energy signature that exists within everything that lives on Filgaia, better known as the personal spirit that manipulates ARMs to the whim of the user. Aura was very nearly the materialisation of individual soul. And, much to Gallows's horror, Clive's aura was decaying.

"Let's get him outside." Said Gallows, dumbstruck. An injury was an injury, but this… How could he be wounded so badly? And even so, it was only a bite. Gallows crossed Clive's arm across his broad shoulder, allowing the sniper to use him like a crutch. They limped him out of the train and onto the platform, laying him down on the ground so he could rest. The priest placed a hand on the marksman's forehead, it was burning up.

Jet jogged over to the three, having been busy delaying the train's departure so they could leave. "Holy shit! What did I miss?" He exclaimed, watching Clive struggle to breathe. Virginia grabbed the boy's hand in fear, and Jet did not resist, for he was a little fearful himself.

Gallows tore his travelling bag off his back, rifling around for something that would help, or at least, ease Clive's suffering. "Here!" He proclaimed, finding a slightly bruised, but still valuable revive fruit. "I have this! Clive, you must eat this for me."

"No." He rasped hoarsely, "I can't."

"Dammit! I don't care whether you _want _to or not, you _have_ to!" Barked Gallows, placing the fruit in Clive's good hand.

Clive merely repeated himself. "No. I can't." He tried to sit up, but failed miserably. "But I can…" He raised a hand weakly, reaching out to touch the priest. Unsure of what he wanted, Gallows extended his own hand, making contact with Clive's.

"What the..?" He muttered, amazed, as a deep red glow radiated from Clive's hand, engulfing the Baskar's own.

"Life drain…" Breathed Clive, invoking his medium and letting the spell take it's effect. Gallows experienced a strong hazing sensation, his energy connected by a temporary rayline from his own aura to Clive's. Strength was sucked away, ounce by ounce, until both souls had equalised their value. Gallows felt like a golem had just landed on him, while Clive was able to sit up and look around, disorientated.

"Whu-ah-wa-wa-wah?" The Baskar garbled unintelligibly, still dazed by the energy transferral.

"Where am I?" Coughed Clive, still on the borderline between hallucination and consciousness. "This is not purgatory… Where is my blade?" He demanded, sinking back down on the platform.

Jet knelt down, grabbed Clive by the coat collar, and dealt him one sharp slap, trying to bring the drifter out of his delirium. Gallows found his hold on the physical world again and took a big bite out of the revive fruit, replenishing his stolen stamina. "Hu-hah-wa-wah." He said, still making no sense, but coming back to his wits.

Clive's eyes refocused, meeting with Jet's lavender ones. His face twisted into a mask of malignancy, usually friendly blue eyes frosting over to a hardened icy steel. Nobody moved for a few moments, the drifters locked into a grievous staring contest. Gradually, Clive's hand moved up to rest as delicately as possible on Jet's forearm, prompting the boy to lose the tension in that limb. Upon doing this, the tiniest and most untraceable smirk appeared on Clive's lips, it's presence corrupting. He made one utterance, but it was spoken so quietly that nobody noticed. "Humans." He spat, gaze blackening.

Everything that happened afterwards went so fast that it was hard to keep track of what had actually transpired. Jet suddenly had the heel of Clive's tough boot slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him reeling onto the floor. But, Clive still had a hold of Jet's arm, and as the green-haired man threw himself to his feet, he dragged his hostage up with him, angling behind the boy and firmly twisting his gun arm to an incredibly painful degree. "Uurgh! The hell?! What the fuck are you doin', Clive?!" Jet roared, struggling to get free. Jet was a very strong person, but by age difference, Clive had the muscular advantage.

Clive didn't seem to answer to his name. He looked down at Virginia, shocked beyond words at the violent display the sniper was putting on, regarding her as if this was the first time they had met. As payment for Jet's insolence, Clive increased the strain on Jet's arm, the boy having to square his jaw to keep himself from crying out in pain. Virginia was simply too surprised to even _think_ about drawing her ARMs, and she just stood there, gaping.

Thankfully, someone else did. The butt of a modified Coyote ARM was brought down sharply on the back of Clive's head, knocking Jet free and Clive out, the latter falling into a crumpled heap. Gallows had snuck up behind Clive, and dealt him a whopping great blow, sending him back into unconsciousness.

Jet shook the tension out of his arm, the joint sore from the pressure. Clive was face down on the platform, still. Jet rolled him over, meeting no outward resistance. He pressed two fingers to Clive's neck, searching for a pulse. It was strong and insistent, the drifter would be fine. "What the hell did you do?" Jet demanded of the Baskar.

Gallows tapped into his unborn talent, extending a regenerative Arcana over both Clive and himself, remaining weakened from the sniper's spell. "Pressure points," Replied Gallows as the healing light was absorbed into his body, "It's in my people's teachings. You just have to know what part to hit."

Rick, the ticket vendor of Westwood station, ran up to them, wanting to know what all the ruckus was about. He was met with one fainted drifter, a tired and panting priest, a girl stunned into silence and a stoic young man. "Hey! No fighting in the station! Do it outside, if you absolutely must."

Virginia finally came out of her state of shock, shaking disbelief out of her head. Clive had… just attacked them. Gathering composure, she addressed the vendor, forcing a smile, one that was completely phoney. "We're not fighting," She told him, "Our friend here is a little sick. We are taking him to Claiborne for treatment." It was the half-truth, but perhaps soon it would be entirely true. Virginia had been concerned before about her friend, but now this was the first time she was actually afraid for him.

"Okay…" Rick moved away from the exit, giving them room to leave. "Claiborne's not too far, but you won't get there tonight, it's too late for that."

"Right. Jet, you take that arm… and I'll take this one, good." Gallows heaved the unconscious drifter up, leaning his weight onto one side of his body. Jet carefully grabbed his other arm, equally dividing his weight between the two men. It looked like Virginia wanted to help, but all she could do was lead them out of the station, onto the green picturesque fields of Westwood.

"Why?" Virginia implored out loud, "Why did he try and hurt us?" She swiftly understood what Jet had been talking about earlier in the day. Now, even she could sense it. It was like… like it was Clive, but at the same time, it wasn't.

"Don't panic over it," Said Gallows in a betrayal of his thoughts, "I think he was hallucinating, or something. It happens to some people during illness." He tried to explain away what had happened, but found his explanation as fake as Virginia's previous smile.

Virginia summoned the horses, and as expected, only three of them managed to turn up, Clive's horse still staying clear away from him. As she hoisted herself onto Stybba, she said; "Rick's right, the town is too far away. Let's just ride until we find a good spot and set up camp."

Jet helped Gallows push Clive up onto Mearas's saddle, not an easy task considering Clive weighed as much as a middle-aged man, and Mearas protested his new cargo as much as he could. They eventually figured it out and Gallows climbed aboard his mount, Jet doing the same to Arod. Without travelling at the leisurely pace as they always did, the three steeds raced off into the night, made even darker by the overcast sky above them. Hooves thundered against the verdant turf, greenery made grey by the night. Not even a star graced their presence with comfort, such feelings were absent in their company.

Clive coughed once in his feeble unnatural sleep, pale and sickened. He shuddered as if he was trying to awaken, but all he could do was sob out one word;

"…L-Luceid."


	10. Metamorphosis

The first thing Clive noticed after coming to was not the absence of all feeling in his limbs, nor the fact that he had been leant against a tall cliff side with nobody else about. Strangely enough, what caught his attention the most was the rhythmic chirping of the crickets in the grass, blended with the faint smell of campfire smoke on the air. These things seemed bolder and more prominent to his senses, but he was not in the state of mind to wonder why. He couldn't move, though he tried, and his voice had almost left him. Clive was paralysed.

He sat there for ages, wishing he could _do _something, not just remain inanimate. Long minutes passed, and finally a person tiptoed by quietly, pink dress making a ruffling noise and giving away her presence.

"Virgini…a." He rasped almost inaudibly, voice breaking near the end of his sentence. She immediately sunk to her knees, squinting through the darkness at the drifter.

"He's awake…" She mumbled under her breath, turning around and cupping her hands to her mouth, amplifying her voice. "Guys! He's awake!" She called, breaking the silence of the area.

"…Can't… move…" Clive whispered, his head drooping. Gallows and Jet appeared, one of them with a long woollen blanket draped across their shoulders. They must have been catching up on some lost sleep, or something like that.

Gallows went to Clive's body, straightening him up into a more comfortable posture. He tilted Clive's neck to check for a pulse in the same way Jet had done hours before, finding nothing to directly worry about. "Clive, do you remember what happened?" He asked, giving the sniper's wounded shoulder a squeeze, but getting no reflex actions at all. Maybe he really _was_ paralysed.

The drifter thought back, his last tangible memory being the conversation on the train, then a great big blank space in his recollection, ending up at the awakening into his numbing condition. "No…" He replied after thinking deeply, unsuccessfully trying to shake his head.

"You almost wound my arm off." Said Jet, rolling the joint in his shoulder and remembering the attack. Jet didn't think Clive possessed that kind of strength, it would have taken a lot of it to haul that great big ARM of his all over the wastelands, but even so, nobody had been able to hold him down like that before…

Clive made a dry choking sound, his chest convulsing with the effort. "Thirsty…" He coughed, shivering from something other than cold. Gallows dispensed him with a drink he had secretly prepared earlier, it was a water mixed with ambrosia and holy roots, a special and ancient liquor used to restore lost aural charge. Shane had showed it to him a while ago, and Gallows thanked the Guardians for the blessing of siblings, especially younger brothers. 

Virginia thought it best to inform Clive about exactly where they were going and what they were doing, in case the drifter had forgotten. "Um, you had a bit of a paroxysm over at the station and we had to sedate you for a while. We struck a path a little northeast, and we're about at the half-way point to Claiborne and Westwood. Tomorrow we'll take you over to the town's clinic and see what can be done. You just rest now, Clive." She explained softly, not wanting to put too much stress on the drifter's mind.

Clive looked to be processing the new information, overcoming his paralysis just enough to barely nod his head and offer a tiny smile. Gallows threw his blanket over the sick drifter and urged all the others to depart with him, the three walking back to the campfire that was burning vigorously.

Jet plunked himself down, setting his Airget-lamh in his lap. "He's really startin' to freak me out." He said. One who knew Jet as well as his comrades could easily see through the façade, sensing precisely how worried the boy was.

"I'm going to admit this," Said Gallows, sighing, "What he's got isn't natural. I know that, at least." He thought this true. All throughout the night ride, Clive had spent his time propped up against the Baskar's back, out cold. What Gallows could sense, however, was that despite the drifter having been dead to the world for hours, his aura had been acting up like crazy. It would dim out like a candle's glow coming to a slow end, fading gradually until there was barely any trace of soul left in the body. Then suddenly, from out of the blue, Clive's aura would flare up like a small explosion, doubling in it's intensity for a few moments before resuming it's regular state. Every time this happened, Gallows would tense abruptly as Clive's aura grazed his own, it was like standing right outside the range of a strobe light, damn well eerie.

But that was not the worst part. After that, Clive's aura would stabilize, yet it came back a little different than before, changed. For the most part, if had felt as if the friend sitting behind him had slowly become a stranger.

"I feel so helpless…" Muttered Virginia, staring dismally into the fire, "He is suffering and we can't do a thing about it." A gloved hand was placed on her shoulder, and she met the gaze of Jet who was trying desperately not to be an absolute asshole tonight.

"I think," Said Jet, forcing himself to be kind to the girl, "That you should sleep. Things always seem better in the mornin'."

Virginia bit her lip and nodded, unrolling her sleeping bag from her pile of stuff. Jet just lay back, crossing his arms behind his head and watching the grey clouds drift lazily overhead. They were thinning, though, and maybe the stars would come out later tonight. It would be a comfort to them all. Gallows strummed a few chords on his ukulele, a futile attempt to take his mind off how badly he wished he was a better medic. Maybe then he could have been more help. He had tried his best. The rest was up to the Guardians.

xxx

__

The moon is full… Do you not see it?

… Do you not sense it?

It draws us all back, to our origins, to the beast that exists in the human soul…

Wake up, my love…

Come and see the moon…

… Come and meet your new form…

xxx

Clive's hand twitched, as if it searched for an object that could not be found. Slowly, his eyes slid open, the absolute stillness of the wasteland greeting him as he woke. He did not think, he _could_ not think, all he felt was the low toned thumping of the ark scepter, in his head and in his heart. Forgetting the paralysis that had consumed him, Clive brushed the blanket covering him away, rising to his feet and swaying from his lack of control, but keeping his gaze on the grass. He left his Gungnir ARM and supplies behind, smiling a smile that had no meaning to it.

"I'm coming…" He intoned dreamily, a force coaxing him to stumble away from the campsite, onto the level lush flatlands of Westwood. He walked similar to a man who was heavily drugged, barely aware of where, or why, he was going. Like a marionette, he forced himself a long way away from camp, leaving the other drifters, sleeping peacefully, behind.

The great rock they had camped at disappeared over the horizon as Clive took short, but tenacious steps away from it, finding himself on an endless expanse of grass, perfect horse territory, nothing as far as the eye could see. He almost tripped a few times, feeling horribly out-of-place in his body, just like it was built for someone else.

"I am here… I am here… Heheeheehahahahahahahah…" He slurred in a sing-song voice, ending up in a form of vacant deranged laughter. He raised his hands skyward, seeing the clouds thinning to an almost total transparency. "Show me…" Offhandedly, he removed his glasses, tossing them aside like old garbage. "Show me… _the moon!_"

On command, the clouds parted, inky black night pasted across the sky. The stars pulsed in their heavens, lovely and awesome, but far away from reach. They merely complimented the dominating article suspended in the overhead space, the big, bright and _full_ moon. It's white light pierced a moonbeam into Clive's consciousness, setting off a hidden trigger deep within the man's body.

Clive collapsed, a tearing rending pain shooting through his nervous system, making the sniper scream in agony. Every cell inside him was on fire, the very fabric of his being ripped to shreds. A thousand pins and needles stabbed every inch of his skin, the clothes he was wearing suddenly becoming tight on his figure. Words could not describe the hurt he felt in his shoulder, the epicenter of the suffering. This was not injury, this was not damage… it was _change_.

His muscles became misshapen, some losing their strength, others doubling in value, thickening. Bones crunched into a new frame, gaining new shape and purpose. In a last burst of thought from Clive, he yanked his increasingly constricting gloves off before his swiftly broadening hands could destroy the piece of attire. His fingers shortened, each digit gaining a razor-sharp claw and hardening into an impossibly tough substance. A coating of dark shaggy grey fur sprouted all over his body, poking through his clothing. Clive screamed again as the seat of his pants tore, a long bushy appendage pushing its way out of the hole it had made. A tail. He called out in vain for his friends, but they were too far away, sleeping through the night and the frantic cries Clive made to them.

Eventually, the horrific pain receded, leaving the poor abomination of a creature lying prone on the grass. He panted heavily from the exertion the transformation had caused, blinking dark red eyes in confusion. Idly, he drew one claw over his furry muzzle, bearing a set of wickedly hooked fangs. His tail flopped ungracefully around, the creature not quite used to owning one yet. Why was he here? What did he want?

What was his desire?

On cue, the creature's stomach rumbled as a reminder of the long fast he had endured, he now realized precisely how hungry he was. And now, in this form, he knew _exactly_ what he had hungered for during the entire day. It was so simple, why had he not thought of it?

Fresh meat.

A growl, deep and throaty, emerged from the beast, drawing himself up to his four legs and catching the faint scent of human flesh to the north and east. North? He had the flash of a memory cross his mind, the image of three familiar people sleeping soundly and peacefully. No, he would not hunt there. Something prevented him…

But he had to eat, he was starving.

"..Ttttoowwnn… eeaarrst… Krrraabboorrnn…" He snarled in an attempt at English. Yes, he could smell many humans from that direction…

And that meant food.

The pleasant fields of Westwood echoed in the night, a blood-curdling animalistic howl stretching across it's boundaries, mournful and melancholy, bearing the slightest tinge of a tortured human voice.


	11. Abduction

Dario really hated this. Jobs were usually nasty and unpleasant, I mean, he was aware of this when he signed up for the entire bandit package, but he really felt like a complete piece of slime doing this particular job. He stroked his bearded chin in dismay, the fire lit streetlights casting his body in flickering shadows. Why couldn't Romero have done it? He _liked_ this kind of thing, and Dario inattentively wondered if Ravendor had selected for this job for the simple reason that he _did_ hate things like this.

Humphrey's Peak was quiet in the early cloudy night, it's citizens long having gone home for dinner and sleep. The streets were vacant and empty, the bandit standing under a light and feeling very sorry for himself. He counted on his fingers the number of houses he had passed, working out his location in his head. Dario had never been here before, and he didn't want to get lost, because if he _did _accomplish his mission, he had to get away as fast as possible.

__

Alright… it's the house with the **blue** roof… **blue **roof, remember…

He peeked at the tops of the houses, darkness making it difficult to discern any colours at all. One roof was darker than the others, and by severe squinting, he saw it was a vivid blue colour. Dario smiled happily and snuck over to the building, tipping his cowboy hat forward to hide his face.

__

Just break in quietly, swipe the kid and leave without sayin' a word…

He pressed himself up against the wall and edged along at a snail's pace, an utterly pointless manoeuvre because nobody was there to spot him anyway. He found himself at a window, the curtains drawn and closed. No light shone within, so Dario made the assumption that the family inside had gone to bed already.

As a test, the bandit tapped the glass of the window and ducked out of the way, trying to see if anyone would notice. Nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and felt all the tension inside him evaporate.

"Hello."

Dario almost had a heart attack. He jumped about a metre into the air, yelping in alarm. The pavement broke his fall, and he landed there, rubbing his lower back painfully. "W-Who goes there?" He stuttered, glancing around in the darkness.

A little blonde girl stepped into the streetlight, smiling angelically. She had a colourful book under one small arm, hair tied up with blue ribbons. With the innocence of a child, she showed absolutely no fear to the bandit sitting in the street, but then again, Dario wasn't really that frightening to begin with. "I go here," She said, playing to the structure of Dario's demand, "Mister, are you lost?"

Yes! Lady Luck was with him tonight! This must be the little girl he had been looking for, practically throwing herself into his custody! But, he had to act nice and non-threatening, put on a farce until he could get a good chance to grab her. He set up what he hoped was a sincere grin, muttering; "Nope. I'm just… um… going for a walk. What's your name, little girl?"

"Kaitlyn," She replied openly, beaming. "Spelled with a K, not a C." Kaitlyn skipped over to the front porch, illuminated by a streetlight. She sat down and put the book in her lap, opening it to a dog-eared page.

"Oh, you must be a smart little girl, Kaitlyn." Said Dario, stretching the false smile. "What are you doing out here so late?"

She frowned in a cute manner, pouting. "Mama makes me go to bed too early, so's I sneak out here after she's asleep to read my books. See?" She held up her copy of 'Wind in the Willows', a picture of a toad in a bright red car printed across the cover.

__

Yeah, this is definitely the kid…

Now, all he had to do was find an opportune time to strike. Ravendor would be pleased at this, having accomplished his mission so early. Yet, Dario still had a bad turning feeling in his stomach, what little morals that remained inside him causing ample irritation. Dario edged away from the spotlights, putting his hands behind his back as he took two objects out of his pocket, a handkerchief and a small vial of fluid. He dripped a few drops of the liquid on the hanky, stuffing the items back into his pockets.

Kaitlyn sneezed, the cold outside getting under her skin. She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve, sniffing. Dario saw his chance. He stepped over to the girl and offered her his hanky inoffensively, mentally kicking himself for what he had to do.

She took the piece of cloth, holding it near her face, but drew it away, looking at it strangely. "It smells funny…" She announced to the bandit standing too close for comfort. It reminded her of the stuff her father used to clean his ARM.

"That's because it's _chloroform_!" Replied Dario, smacking a hand to her face and pressing the cloth to her mouth. Kaitlyn's eyes widened in panic, but she could not cry out for any kind of help. Dario held her down as the chemicals began to take effect in the little girl's system, her body going slack. He let a few moments pass, making sure that she was indeed knocked out. Kaitlyn eyes closed as she lost her grip on reality, her precious book falling to the pavement from limp fingers.

"Hey, ya actually done somethin' right!" Exclaimed Romero, emerging from the shadows. Romero was the only one in their group who didn't use ARMs, he preferred the path of the ninja better. Because of this, Romero could move practically undetected from place to place. His personality mirrored his behaviour, sneaky and underhanded spinelessness.

Dario hooked his arm around the little girl, blonde strands of hair dangling to the ground. He lifted her effortlessly, she was very light. "Right, this is the lowest thing we ever done." He said, shaking his head.

"Eh, it's just a brat." Retorted Romero, scratching his scarred eye. "C'mon, the Boss is waitin' for us." He turned on his heel, shoving his hands in his pockets and strutted away like he owned the entire town, a smirk of personal gratification on his lips. Dario reluctantly followed him, kicking Kaitlyn's book to the side, pages going askew as it rested under a tree, opening to a page with Kaitlyn's name written neatly in the corner.

"'Might be a brat, but it's just a kid…" He muttered, disgruntled.

Ravendor demurely waited at a lamppost, watching his cigarette draw trails of grey smoke in the air. His bright green eyes fixed on the two lackeys approaching, smiling elegantly. It seemed that they weren't as useless as he had previously expected.

"Ah, excellent, fellows." He brushed back his long dark ponytail, shining in the artificial light. "Now that the child is in our custody, we may leave."

"But, uh…" Stammered Dario, intimidated by the intense presence of his boss, "Do we _really _hafta do this? Ain't there no other way?"

Surprising Dario greatly, Ravendor did not seem perturbed by his questioning of their plan. The bearded bandit thought that he must have a fuse a mile long, very different to Janus by a long shot. "Dear Dario," He purred, "Can you think of a better technique to attract these outlaws?"

"Well, I-"

Ravendor cut him off. "The Winslett family is the most defenceless of all the family ties this criminal entourage bears. I am merely thinking logically." He idly removed a sealed envelope from the folds of his clothing, sealed with wax and addressed to the Winslett household in a calligraphic text. He passed it to Romero who looked like he didn't know what to do with it. "Leave this on their doorstep." Ravendor instructed, "It is time we took our leave."

Romero nodded and melted into the shadows, the gentle sound of footfalls upon grass sounding. Dario rearranged Kaitlyn to a position that would be more comfortable for both of them, the girl's legs no longer sweeping the ground.

"We should lay low, I guess." Said Dario, shifting his weight from foot to foot glumly.

"Naturally." Answered Ravendor genially, tapping ash onto the ground. "I have selected an ideal location for our use. Do not fret, my friend, you will be much wealthier before long."

Romero reappeared, without the envelope. "'Kay, I'm done. Let's go."

The leader smirked, thinking dark thoughts. "We should expect a retaliation in the next few days. I severely doubt they will accept the inevitable quietly." He chuckled, dropping his cigarette and crushing it underfoot.

The team of bandits briskly left the town with one of it's citizens in their custody. When the sun would break over the horizon, Kaitlyn's absence would soon be noted, and then who knew what would happen?

They would just have to wait and see.


	12. Murder In The Darkness, Murder In The Fi...

(A/N: Kill time! Ruskin the nutter, this is for you! But please, I warn weak stomached people, things will get bloody, so get a barf bag ready…)

Roykman's marshmallow melted from the intense heat of the fire, going gooey on the inside while staying crispy on the outside. The item merchant removed his stick from the fire, happily popping the toasted sugary sweet in his mouth. Yes, this was the life. Wandering around, peddling his wares, meeting new and interesting people every single day, knowing that every sale made a difference, though tiny, to the world as a whole. What path could have been better than his? None, as he thought it.

Travis stoked the fire with an iron poker, embers tumbling from their arranged position. He was a long way from Little Twister and his hidden bazaar of rare and unusual items, but hell, he was enjoying this outing almost as much as his little brother, Roykman, was. They didn't get to see each other very often, as both of them had entirely different views on how a entrepreneur should act. Travis thought of the money and _only_ the money, whilst Roykman valued the experience of travel above all else. They were very similar, and at the same time, totally the opposite. But, they were brothers and they loved each other, wasn't that enough?

"So, this is Westwood…" Said Travis, looking around the flat area. "Not a bad place, really." It was worth climbing his way across the separating ravine just to be here, in the solitude of nature. This place was much nicer than dusty Little Twister.

"Hmm, I thought you would appreciate it, big bro." Roykman replied, sitting with his legs crossed near the fire. "Thanks for taking time off to come stay with me for a while. Travelling is fun, but you miss your kin every so often…"

Travis nodded understandingly. "I would expect so. I guess mother and father up in Heaven must be glad to know I'm still looking after you, even with all your eccentricities."

The peddler laughed, "It is eccentricities that make life interesting! I would never forego them, even if I was forced to." He passed Travis the bag of marshmallows, the older brother fishing out a treat for himself.

He tapped his knee thoughtfully as he skewered the marshmallow with the iron poker, hovering it over the fire. "You know, that's what I admire about you. I don't see how you can just _do _what you want to do."

"It's not that hard to chase a dream, sure, some people will ridicule you, but what you gain is worth far more than what you lost." Said Roykman with pride, smiling at his brother.

"So, what have you gained?" Travis asked innocently. He wanted to know precisely _what_ one would gain after years of wandering around like a vagrant.

Roykman smiled mysteriously. "The ability to perceive what I have gained."

Travis opened his mouth to reply to the blatant loophole in his brother's statement, but paused as a twig broke nearby, encouraging the two to look around for the source of the sound. They both stood up, brushing the dust from their trousers. Travis heard footsteps, and he vaguely saw the shape of a man in the shadows, the blackened silhouette standing just outside the warmth of their campfire. He was hunched slightly over, face staring at the ground, seeming to be breathing more heavily than normal, but to the two brothers who had the merriment of a reunion on their sides, they didn't notice this. 

"Hello," Roykman greeted in high spirits, waving his marshmallow stick like a conductor's baton, "Are you from Claiborne? It's a nice night, isn't it?" The man did not say anything, nor did he move, which made their resolve waver somewhat. Roykman shot a look at his older brother, the owner of the Black Market scratching his head in awkwardness. "Um, would you like to stay with us for the night? We have a warm fire and everything…"

"We have plenty of food, too." Added Travis, they had stocked their portable pantry only yesterday, they were loaded up with all kind of good snacks. They couldn't just leave somebody alone in the wastelands in the middle of the night, whomever they may be.

"You can-" Roykman was about the add another contribution to their one-sided debate, before suddenly finding himself tongue-tied, fear replacing joviality and the colour draining from his face. The man lurched forward unsteadily into the light, lifting his head and leering steadily at the merchants. Red eyes glowed back at them, radiating a violent craving for blood. He was dressed as a human, but human he surely was _not_. Fur poked out from under his red trench coat, and his claws could slice bone just as easily as flesh.

Roykman's legs buckled underneath him, the man falling to his knees in utter terror, his voice frozen in his throat. Long and hooked fangs glinted in the firelight as the monster bared them, moving over to the peddler gradually, taking plenty of time to scare the man half to death. He growled out a threat, impossible to understand, but clearly sending the message of his intentions.

Travis was immediately in front of Roykman, spreading his arms out to block the monster from his little brother. "Don't you touch him!" He yelled, standing tall despite how he felt. He swore he would protect his little brother, and that was what he'd do, no matter what. He shook like a leaf, unarmed except for his iron poker.

But that one item was good enough for him. He swung it at the monster, who dived back down to all fours and dodged the attack, leaping away momentarily into the dark. Travis crouched down to his brother, the younger man on his knees and forcing his eyes shut, hands over his face. "Damn! What the hell was _that_?!" He mouthed, trying to shake Roykman out of his fit of fear.

"I-Is it gone?" He stammered, trying to hold back his shakes.

"I think so- agh!" Travis was yanked back by the collar of his jacket by an incredible force, sharp nails digging deeply into his neck. He was spun around roughly to the face of the beast and had only a second before his last chance at escape disappeared forever. He missed it, a flash of razor-sharp claws flew diagonally up his chest, deep lesions left in their wake. Blood splashed up in a startling arc, splattering on both bodies and dripping it's crimson trails to the grass. Travis gasped, eyes going as wide as saucers as the delayed pain struck him brutally, too shocked even to scream.

But Roykman did scream, practically feeling his brother's pain. The iron poker fell out of Travis's grip, landing heavily and with finality. One hand moved to feel the slashes on his chest, scarcely believing that they were there. His hands became blood-slicked and Travis stared at them with horror, the impact leaving his mind with one simple message. He was going to die.

Something in his chest cracked and tore, caught and pulled under the force of the creature's tough claws. Here and there, a mangled peak or spike of a rib punctured through the flesh, shoved through skin and internal organ to peek it's way out of its natural moorings. A gurgle rose in Travis's mouth, twin streams of reddish ichor bubbling down his chin and seeping into the soft cloth of his ripped jacket. An aqueous wail sent frothy blood dripping in-between his feet, losing power of thought, and sound simply made in a mindless manner of loss.

Travis started to flail in desperate panic, but a pair of claws bit deeper into his skin and held him firmly, the beast leaning over his captive and sniffing the rich leaking liquid with fascination. He drew his tongue across the wound, cleaning it of its slowly coagulating blood. The merchant squirmed as he felt it through his pain, trying to kick the monster off him. All it did was just aggravate the creature more and he moved up to smell his neck and the pulsing blood it contained. His eyesight began to blur, the loss of his blood beginning to make some mark on the processing of his body.

Blood matted the fur of the creature into a red and grey pattern, he gazed down onto the prey he clutched between his claws, bleeding and dying, twitching as control of it's body lessened. Inquisitively, he pulled away at the strips of flesh ripped from the human's stomach, spilling down a torrent of more vital fluid mixed with chunky strands of innards. A claw brushed past the fractured imperfection of a rib, obligingly manipulating his claw-like hand to remove the bone fragment with a meaty slurp, snapping it away from where it once was anchored. More liquid sprinkled over the creature's trench coat, blending in with the vivacious crimson colour of the clothing and reaching an almost invisible status. It could still easily be smelt, and with the beast's unnatural sense of smell, it was electrifying.

The bone was smelled out, but tossed carelessly aside, who would need a bone when there was fresh meat to be had? Every breath Travis took was spent on borrowed time, losing feeling in his arms and legs, he gurgles weakly to a brother he can no longer see, clear droplets of tears mixing with the scarlet rain he leaked. "B-broth…er… Run…"

Roykman rocked himself back and forth, hands over his ears and eyes squeezed closed. His voice was merged with frantic hyperventilation, scarcely differentiating between the two. He called out to the Gods again and again, begging for it to stop. "Ohgodsohgodsohgodsohgods…"

He had toyed enough, he was much too hungry to let this game run for longer than needed. Reaching upwards, he dug one claw into the human's soft shoulder tissue, a depression of blood forming around the nails that bit acutely into the skin. He wrapped one arm around the back of the body to support it, sensing the rush of human adrenaline to quicken it's pulse. The merchant screamed one last broken cry as curved teeth sunk unyieldingly into his neck, clamping down on his windpipe and constricting his larynx to obliteration. His jugular vein was severed with the pressure, the blood used to keep his mind alive pouring out of the incision and down into the waiting throat of the monster, draining his prey of all life. Travis's hand curled with mindless defiance for one final time, held there for the briefest second, then going slack forever.

Travis's head lolled to one side, face molded from the intense pain of the last moments of life into a disturbing peace, arms going limp and swinging in the hold of the beast. The corpse is dumped on the ground, as no resistance or reason was met to keep it standing. It crumpled like a dropped raggedy Ann doll, rolling to the side and twisting at an abnormal angle. The flesh within it seems to liquefy, sagging from skeletal restraint and laying open the bare inner workings within. Eyes glazed over, staring at a sky that could no longer be seen. Blind.

The monster parted the rows of sinew winding the ribcage together, swinging both sides of the case open with a sickening snap. Odd bunched up series of pale tubular vital organs lay awash in the puddle of blood, he grabbed a fistful and tore them out, throwing them carelessly over his shoulder. The ribcage was not empty save for fillets of taut muscle, which were quickly removed and swallowed down greedily, soaked in the pooling life essence collected in the bottom of the morbid basin.

A ghastly yelp of pain cut through the atmosphere, the beast crushed over the dead body by the dense brunt and force of an iron poker smashed across his back. Roykman fought back the bile rising in his throat, almost fainting from panic. Yet, a solid foundation of the need for revenge supported and steadied his hand, giving him to incentive to fight back. Everything had been so perfect, they were having fun, but then…

"You killed my big bro, you fucking bastard! Son of a fucking bitch, die, dammit!" Roykman howled, aiming again for another hit, this time at the creature's face.

He did not anticipate the beast whirling around and biting down with a vice-like grip on the length of the poker, wrenching it out of his hands. Roykman stumbled back, empty-handed and without any defensive tactics. But now he had the creature's attention, and food was no longer it's top priority, paying him back for the blow was. He spat out the poker, sending it into the fire where it could no longer be of any use.

Not bothering to rise again up to two feet, the beast simply pushed off from his back legs and slammed himself into the chest of the shaking human, using all his weight to flatten Roykman to the ground. Lying with his back against the soft grass and eyes forced to watch the tiny pinpoints of stars surround a giant white moon, the travelling merchant had a clawed hand pressed up against his throat, shutting off the flow of air to his brain. Roykman's hands flew to grapple with the strong arm holding him down, fighting a losing battle. Things became dreamy-like, and he found himself not caring about what had happened, or the fact that he was slowly asphyxiating. He could see through the sky, beyond, to a Heaven, most likely where his parents and Travis were waiting for him to come home. Assuring himself of this, he let go, not just of his grip on the werewolf, but on himself as well. 

Roykman died as he watched the stars.

xxx

He was probably the only person in the entire town who actually _enjoyed_ working overtime. He wasn't really paid much more, either way, but he loved his work and always tried his best to excel at it. The horses were kind and loving, his work mates were kind and loving, he always had dinner ready when he wandered back to the inn, and a beautiful girl to deliver it to him. What more could Pike want? He had definitely not made any mistakes when he had decided to come here for employment, that's for sure.

It was past midnight, and even the thought of the lateness of the night compelled Pike to yawn and blink his eyes sleepily, he knew his tiredness was just psychosomatic and that he should soldier on. The gentle muffled whinnies of a cadre of sleeping horses calmed his nerves, as it oddly always did, and he continued his job, mixing up a new blend of oats that would maximize the output and stamina for all of Dessinsey's horses.

He had tried lots of times to come up with something great, and had failed too many times to count. This did not upset him, it merely inspired him to try harder, working with the new memories he had from all the old failures. He was sure that he would crack the code, someday.

Pike packed away the different brands of grain diligently into their outside storehouse, each bag having it's own special place. He ran a hand through his grass-green hair, the sweat from his day of working keeping the strands back. All he had to do was pack all this up, check on the horses one last time and take a nice long sleep.

Just as he used all his weight to heave a sack of barley into a waiting corner, he faintly heard the sound of glass breaking in the stables, a sharp crack followed by faint tinkling. Pike raised an eyebrow, was Dessinsey in the stables? No, maybe one of the horses had disturbed a lamp or something. In any case, Pike went to go and check it out.

xxx

"So anyway, wha' was I sayin'?"

Volks laughed drunkenly. "Sumthin' about your horsies."

"Oh yes! My horsies are th' best, ya know. Heheh, all the tea in Ballack Rise couldn't compare to my horsies, I should make im' race and get me a fortune!" Both men spent the rest of their gella at the Horse Theft Inn happy hour, regaling each other with stories nobody really even seemed to care about. Mileux smiled prettily as two of her best customers ordered another round, playing a game where the person who could no longer take another drink had to pay for the entire evening's worth of liquor. Volks and Dessinsey were determined not to lose.

Otto was at another table, enjoying a cup of coffee and drawing up blueprints for another new ARM modification design. He had most of his best ideas at night, so he acted upon them as soon as they were formed.

"Jockeys."

"Wha?"

"You'd need jockeys to race horsies." Slurred Volks, shifting his crutch from one hand to the other. "An' they'd hafta be real light to do so."

"Goblins!" Exploded Dessinsey in a burst of revelation, "We could, you an' I, we could tame a buncha goblins ta race them horsies!"

Volks rubbed his chin. "That's a good idea. I wonder if-"

Then they heard the scream. A light peal of a tenor voice pierced the eardrums of the drunken company, shaking them from their conversation. It seemed to come from next door, the stables.

Otto jumped to his feet, spilling his coffee on the floorboards. "What the?!"

The scream managed to sober the men up a little bit, they looked around for the sound's source. Volks pushed himself up with his crutch, his lack of sobriety not helping him set his peg leg on the floor. "Is Pike still workin' at the stables?" He asked.

"Yep, he's a good kid." Answered Dessinsey, then it all hit them simultaneously. "Ack! The stables! Pike!"

Otto assumed a leadership position, as he was the only man there who could think straight. He pulled his ARM from it's holster and left Mileux with her payment for his coffee. "Right! Let's go and see what's wrong!" He pointed to the doorway before exiting, the two drunken men bringing up the rear.

Mileux cleaned up the spillage on the floor, simply glad to be back home with her daughter. She hoped Pike was okay, sometimes that boy just worked too hard. She guessed that was just one of the things her daughter Martina loved about him.

Yes, Pike would make a good son one day.

xxx

The temperature increased dramatically in his repose, and Clive found himself with both feet planted firmly on the ground in a dungeon-like setting. Molten lava bubbled on the smooth flagstones and the stench of sulphurous fumes floated around in the air. He was in a circular chamber, the floor inscribed with an arcane symbol whose meaning was lost on him. Clive suddenly realised he was looking at the world from tinted glass, and he was wearing a helmet made of light metal. He felt taller and sturdier than usual, but when he tried to move, he remained frozen to the spot in a unbending position, arms folded over his chest. An oriental-style gi hugged his body, defensive plates of armour clasped in certain locations adding extra protection to his garb. He did not breathe, and that was when Clive understood the truth.

He was dreaming.

This was a new experience for him, he had never entered a dream aware that it was a dream before. But it felt different to all those flights of fancy that so often occupied his sleep. This felt more like a memory than anything else. So, he would play this out and see what happens. Clive was not really concerned with this reality, as those in a dream world would usually do.

In the centre of the room, panting and gurgling through the blood and drool running out of his sharp jagged jaws, sat a green reptilian demon in great pain, sprawled out and marked with countless bullet holes and burns of magic. It's large flail mace was broken beside him, the chain that held the spiked ball to the handle severed by a well-aimed sword stroke. The demon was dressed punkishly, purple bandanna slipping off his mottled bulbous forehead. He rumbled away to himself, unaware that Clive stood quietly nearby. Clive let him bemoan his bad luck for a few moments, an irritating whine mixed with anger and frustration. Not knowing where he got the feeling from, Clive immediately disliked this creature. 

But, where was he? All his dreams always took place in a place he recognised, this was something new. A word popped into his head, _Volcannon Trap_.

Clive stepped forward, he could not control his body but it appeared that somebody else could. In this dream, all he could be was a spectator. Under his mask, his lips curled back into a revolted sneer, spitting out words with a voice that was not his own. It was deeper and more resounding, creating an ominous echo. "How pitiful!" He boomed with disgust, "You used all your powers and you _still_ lost…"

The demon jerked up at the sound of Clive's voice, holding an arm across his chest to keep his guts from falling out. His eyes flicked around anxiously to pinpoint Clive's location, but from the hidden place he stood and the reverberation of his voice, it cloaked him wonderfully. 

Clive shook his head, dismayed at the weakness of a fellow demon. "And against _humans_ of all things…" He continued, stepping into the reptile's field of vision. It was time he showed himself.

"Who was that?" The demon garbled before tensing suddenly as Clive appeared before him. Clive hid a smirk under his helmet, amused at the surprised look the creature shot him. "No way… You're not even a council member!"

__

Oh, that would change soon, thought the person controlling Clive's body. The demon snorted with discontent, taking on a rather snotty air because of his higher rank. "Give me a hand, gather my body parts and take me back to the Photosphere!" He ordered, squirming around to try and stand up. Clive raised a hand, assured of the fact that this was not his body, his skin had a much darker tone than to when he was awake.

A tool that looked remarkably similar to one of Jet's was clasped in his palm, the edges of the metallic boomerang as sharp as a surgical knife. The reptile could not see Clive's smile, but it was a good thing he didn't, as it would have frightened the toughest of men. "I have no hand to give to a _loser_…" He replied calmly, briefly running a finger down the side of his blade.

The weapon cut like a scalpel through the scaly flash of the reptile, so sharp that it did not even draw blood. The demon did not properly grasp his predicament as he fell into two separate halves, bone and green jelly-like muscle evaporating upon the death of the monster. He vanished, returning to the nothing from whence he came. The boomerang returned faithfully to his hand as it was expected, caught with nonchalant air from the only other demon left alive in the dungeon.

Clive crouched to his knees near the middle of the room where the demon had lain, pressing his hand to the centre of the arcane pattern. The power generators had been destroyed, but there was no reason to let the three humans go without a farewell gift. He discharged energy into the floor, causing power to spread and run up the walls, quivering as it's foundation shook. Fire bubbled up around the lava, reacting with the gas and causing violent explosions. Clive experienced a weird tugging sensation, losing the grip on this body and becoming nothing but an intangible entity. The dream had ended.


	13. Search Party

A cool morning breeze blew a west wind into the face of the sleeping drifter, waking Jet from a deep and wholesome sleep. His back felt stiff, he had fallen asleep leaning up against the big cliff and he had lost the feeling in some parts of his body. He shifted slightly to regulate his circulation again, getting that all too familiar pins-and-needles sensation down his side.

He yawned, working the kinks and cricks out of his neck. It was just before the dawn. Jet always was an early riser, because he didn't like the idea of other people being up and moving around when he lay defenceless in sleep. It was an instinctual part of himself that he had gained from resting wherever he possibly could. It was almost as if he had a small alarm clock built inside of his body that woke him up without fail. Though, now that he was aware of his origins, that may have had more truth to it than he would have imagined.

A greyish sky greeted the young drifter, drab clouds plodding sluggishly to their respective duties, small traces of a red sunrise lining their dreary underbellies. The sun continued to rest under the horizon, there was still a little more time before it could reanimate the world. Westwood looked different in the light of the morning, the far-off caws of pordarges alerting Filgaia of the presence of a new day. It was a sea of undisturbed green, individual blades of shortened grass swaying in the newborn light. The campfire smouldered a few feet away, suffocating from lack of fuel and care. A sizeable brown lump nearby was Gallows with his bristly blanket pulled over his head, snores and murmurings drifting out from under the cover.

Feeling started to return to his arms and legs, so he stretched them to let out all of the tension. One half of his body felt warmer than the other, and upon realizing the reason why, Jet turned a deep shade of red, blushing all the way down his neck.

Virginia had him in an unconscious death grip, one arm around his back and front with her head resting against his shoulder. She must have moved from her sleeping bag some time during the night, finding a better place to sleep, whether she had been aware of it or not. Jet swallowed hard, feeling her soft brown hair against the crook of his neck. She was breathing deeply, so she still must not have awoken yet. This was bad, _very_ bad. Jet had an overpowering urge to tear himself away from where he sat, whether it woke her or not, but despite all the commands his brain sent screaming to his body, he remained seated. Because, well, the morning was still a little cold to his heat adjusted senses, and she was supplying him with the warmth needed to stave it off.

Anyway, she was the one who had came to him, she could deal with it when she woke up. Jet closed his eyes again, ignoring the rocks poking into his back and the female drifter practically hanging off him. Let them say whatever they wanted, Jet was still a little tired.

xxx

Jet discovered the results of his decision a short while later. It earned him a bright red mark on his cheek in the shape of Virginia's handprint and probably a small drop in the trust quotient between both of them. She didn't really seem to care that it wasn't Jet's fault, but that was because of the unbroken snickering Gallows made, no matter how dangerous a glower both young drifters threw at him.

"So, it looks like you two slept well." He chortled, artfully dodging another visit from Jet's boomerang, swiftly becoming a Gallows-smart-alec-remark suppressor.

"Don't tempt fate, Gal." Said Virginia, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "We still owe you for yesterday."

"Oh, heh, yeah." Gallows shook all the pieces of grass and crud out of his blanket, folding it up neatly into a little square. "I'll shut up now." The Baskar was not a morning person, unlike Jet, and so stumbled around like a zombie, getting the ingredients to make breakfast ready.

Virginia tried to smooth out the rumples in her dress with her hands, muttering something about needing a nice long bath. Her clothes were stained with dust and mud, and she was well aware that she stunk of horses and gunpowder. She couldn't complain, though. The others had it much worse.

"Anybody checked on Clive yet?" Said Jet, reequipping himself with his hand guard and making sure his ARM was fully loaded for the day ahead. He tightened the shred of his bandanna holding the ripped part of his pants together and took a deep breath of fresh morning air.

"Oh, I'll go do it." Virginia answered, looking up at the boy. "I hope he feels better…" She murmured as she walked away, wetting the tops of her shoes as she scuffed through the dew covered grass. She hoped the remedy Gallows had given him last night had made some difference to his health, no matter how small. The thought of one of her closest friends in such pain made her feel similarly unwell.

It seemed fairly pointless to re light the fire for breakfast if they were going to depart so soon, so Gallows served breakfast cold to Jet and himself, lovely tinned protein supplement preserves. At least, that was what Gallows called it in order to make it sound more appetizing. Jet just called it Spam. He prodded the unusual looking food with his spork, realized that as long as it was edible it was fine with him, and swallowed some, washing it down with a deep draught of water.

"Yup, breakfast of champions!" Announced Gallows in an attempt to convince himself that it really was good food. He sat cross-legged on his blanket, stabbing the food viscously with his fork. "But, I'll tell you what. How about after we collect this bounty we all go out for a steak dinner? It'll be better than this, err, stuff."

"It's not _that_ bad." Replied Jet. He had tasted worse.

Gallows looked up into the grey and red sky, reflecting the sunrise. He shook his head and made a small noise of disapproval. "That's not too good." He said to Jet, pointing upwards.

"What?" Asked Jet, following the direction of Gallows's finger. What was the Baskar on about now?

"It's just a dumb verse that I was reminded of this second from when I was a kid." Said Gallows, sweeping his hand up in a motion in the sky. "An old saying; _Red sky at night, Baskar's delight. Red sky in the morning, Baskar's warning._"

Jet sniffed, unconcerned. He poked the remains of his food again. "You tryin' to prophesize our deaths?" He said disinterestedly.

"Nope. Just being nostalgic." The Baskar reassured him, smiling. It was only an old nursery rhyme. "'Sides, my little bro is the prophet, I'm the dead weight." He admitted this freely, so he didn't appear to be too disturbed about it.

"Guys!" Cried Virginia frantically, running up to where the two drifters sat near the burned-out fire Her cheeks were heated and she looked very upset.. "I think we have a problem!"

"Don't tell me, the old guy's kicked the bucket." Guessed Jet, sporting the ghost of a smile.

"No," Replied Virginia, the look of distress on her face silencing any mirth in the radius of the campsite. "Clive's _missing_!"

Gallows and Jet looked at each other. "Are you sure?" They said.

Virginia nodded vigorously. "Yes. I searched the place where we left him, and he wasn't there. He left all his stuff behind and I just… I just don't know." 

The priest sighed, he knew he shouldn't have let the man out of his sight. Some medic he turned out to be. Gallows got to his feet and Jet did the same, shoving away the scraps of their questionable breakfast. "Alright. Let's go look for him," He advised calmly, "He couldn't have gotten too far."

The drifter team skipped the lengthy process of meticulous packing, and basically shoved all their things into the tightest space they could, securing it with a rope and hauling it along with them. They had more important things to do, like finding their lost friend. Two tins of opened Spam were left all alone on the plains of Westwood where they were eventually found by a family of pordarges and used to their fullest degree. At least the birds were happy.

xxx

Jet knelt on the place where they had left Clive the night before, looking around for any clues that might have given them some idea as to where the sniper had gone. The Gungnir ARM was still propped tidily up against the cliff side, untouched for hours. The same could be said for Clive's bag of medical supplies, everything was where it was meant to be, except that it's owner was missing. Jet traced a hand over the grass, wiping away the layer of dew clinging to the foliage. "He got up and walked away," Said Jet after a minute, "About eight hours ago."

Virginia looked over Jet's shoulder. All she saw was wet grass. True, she was no experienced tracker like Jet and Clive, but anything that was worth noting should have been visible to her, at least. "How are you sure?" She asked him, curious.

He smiled a bit, feeling Virginia's breath wash across his neck. Jet drew a tiny outline around a slight depression in the grass, the ground laced with less water than it's surroundings. "See this? It's a footprint. And the reason I can date it is 'cause of the differing amounts of water in and out of the track. When the print was made, Clive scuffed the water out of it and so there's less moisture than on the rest of the ground."

"I get it. That's pretty neat, Jet. How did you get to learn things like that?" Virginia prodded. It was a pretty good talent for a drifter to have. Maybe she could get Jet to show her how he did it someday.

Jet snorted gruffly. "Your old man taught me. I guess he didn't get around to teaching you about it."

"Hm, I thought it would be something like that." She answered. "It's a good thing you found these clues before the sun dried them up."

Gallows picked up Clive's huge ARM, wheeling out the additional strap and slinging it over his broad shoulders alongside all the other things he was carrying. "Wait, if what you said is true, then he must be about an eight hours walk away." He slumped, not really feeling like a long hike today.

The silver-haired drifter shook his head negatively. "That's only if he didn't stop walking and kept at a steady pace." Jet looked at the position of the newly risen sun, the tracks lead straight into its course. "He went east," Jet added, "He probably went to Claiborne."

"What? Unarmed? By himself? Why?" Said Virginia, shooting out a volley of questions.

"Do I look like a damned mind reader?!" Jet answered, standing up.

Gallows coughed to get the attention of the others. "Let's just go to Claiborne. If Clive did wander off, it's most likely he'd head to the nearest civilization, which would be that town. Heh, I'm such a genius!" He remarked, getting looks of incredulity from the other two drifters. 

"Should we call the horses?" Virginia inquired to the others.

"No, I might lose the tracks if we go too fast." Retorted Jet. He pointed east. "We march."

The Baskar groaned, shifting to one leg so he could hold his booted foot in dismay. "Nooo… My poor bruised tootsies can't take much more of this!" He complained, starting to drag his feet eastwards. Virginia followed him, offering optimistic words to the unhappy priest, though she felt none too optimistic herself. She really, really hoped Clive was alright, why in the world would an intelligent man like him just up and disappear in the middle of the night? Jet brought up the rear of the march, intentionally going slower in case he saw any more clues.

After about fifteen minutes of walking, Jet stopped abruptly, scratching the back of his head in confusion. Virginia and Gallows doubled back on themselves, wanting to know what was wrong. Gallows verbalized this for both of them.

"The tracks… they go funny at about here." Jet directed their gaze to the ground. "Maybe they're just malformed from the heat or something, but they look more like…" Jet trailed off, a foreboding settling into his mind. Clive's footprints stopped and animal tracks had begun. Had Clive been attacked? "Well, it's probably just the heat," He rationalized, "Let's keep going."

"Uhhhh… How much longer 'til Claiborne?" Gallows complained loudly.

Virginia sighed with exasperation, slapping a hand to her forehead and redirecting her gaze to the grass. Something glinted there in the light, drawing her attention. She gasped, bending down to pick up the object.

They were a little dirty, but there was no doubt that they were Clive's glasses. She held them up for all to see. "You're right, Jet. He came this way." The drifter stuffed them in her pocket, she'd give them back later.

Then they heard the groan.

Everybody jumped into a fighting position, unaware of where the noise originated. They were not attacked by anything, so all of them looked around for the source. Jet thought many words that he would never say out loud as the other drifters scuffed away the tracks he had been following in their search. The flat lands of Westwood were uncharacteristically marked with a small grassy knoll, and Virginia paced the perimeter while the others looked elsewhere. Jet and Gallows tensed as Virginia suddenly cried out in alarm, summoning the others for help.

Her eyes were wide as the two male drifters caught up to her place. Unconsciously she grabbed Jet for support. Gallows swallowed hard and Jet looked away, hiding their consternation and horror.

Clive Winslett lay on his back at the foot of the knoll, deeply comatose in a sprawled position, face pale and hardly breathing, drenched in rich crimson blood.


	14. Morning After, Heightened Senses

__

"No…it can't be…He's known as the '**Cannibal**' … The '**Executioner**'…"

…Pleased to see you know my name…

"A man with his reputation should not be joining the Quarter Knights."

So, Zeik. You are against me as well? Yet you dance to the whim of the Mother… Hmph, ever the obedient child…

Luceid, could a child destroy the world? I think not…

This world is like a tiny flower, dear one, even the insignificant booted foot of an infant could crush it forever…

Well said. I will play along with the child's game, for now, until my desire is fulfilled…Let this Knight's Quarter be mine, and perhaps my blade shall sing again in the offering of human life…

xxx

Clive opened his eyes, scenting the powerful biting smell of a breath mint held under his nose, neutralising his deep sleep. The sun shone in his eyes and he raised a bare hand to cover his face, absently noting the reddish burn mark still standing out on his pale skin. Of course, his hands didn't see daylight too often, so they were naturally pale. Peculiarly, the vine pattern beautifully engraved on the side of Virginia's ARM had branded itself into his hand, resembling a tiny series of veins. Not too pretty, and it itched a little too much for comfort.

It felt like he had been sleeping for a hundred years, the groggy feelings his mind kept sending him, a sharp protest about being awake. But, with such a sleep, he felt completely rested, as if somebody had shaved ten years off his age. Apart from a slight aching across his shoulder blades, he hadn't been this energised in ages.

With one arm he pushed himself up, the bright sun's glare preventing him from seeing the faces of the people surrounding him. He heard their breathing with incredible clarity and was able to guess who they were. He wrapped his hand around the wrist of the nearest person, gently removing the breath mint from their fingers. Clive swallowed, intrigued by the weird coppery taste he had in his mouth. "Hello Virginia," He acknowledged, smiling, "Good morning."

"Uh, hi." She replied, leaning over the recently woken sniper. Clive's eyes were clear and focused, even without his glasses. They had developed an intense piercing quality, whether the feelings behind them were benign or not. Looking over this, she helped Clive into a sitting arrangement, the older drifter letting her do so without complaint.

Clive scanned his surroundings. "I may be mistaken, but were we not camped at a different location?" He asked, frowning lightly. Clive could have sworn they had stopped at a cliff side, it was one of the few things he recalled through his paralysis.

Gallows laughed ruefully. "Heh, yeah, we were, until you decided to take a midnight stroll…" Clive tilted his head to one side in a confused manner, piercing eyes centring their gaze on the Baskar. Gallows inwardly blanched at this, it freaked him out.

"I did? But I…" Clive suddenly had a revelation, stretching his wounded limb out and feeling no pain. None at all. Unperturbed for some reason, he twisted his arm and flexed his fingers, expecting at least _some_ residual effects from the bite the other day. A wound could not feel so bad one day and suddenly be healed the next, could it? He had no sickness, no discomfort, it had all disappeared. He moved his hand to his shoulder, the wound was still there, but all the hurt had gone. He looked up at Gallows happily. "…You are a miracle worker, my friend."

"Huh?" Gallows grunted, not expecting praise. Overall, he had only done what any other person with a brain in his head would do, he was just lucky enough to have restocked his supplies during the Secret Garden's harvest season.

"Your medicines seemed to have cured me of my illness," Continued Clive, "Thank you very much. I believe it may have been a passing illness, and I am very grateful to you all for taking care of me."

Gallows rubbed the back of his neck modestly, grinning embarrassedly. "Aw, shucks. I was only helpin'…"

The drifter in the pink dress exhaled in relief. Just a passing illness... She had been incredibly worried about her friend, it felt so much better to know that he was okay.

Jet's eyes shifted from the left to the right, troubled. He finally spoke, breaking his stony silence. "Wanna explain why you decided to take a blood bath?" He questioned casually, trying to be detached from the topic of the sentence. There was no blood on the ground, so Jet figured Clive must have only recently come here, and it had already coagulated on his clothing, meaning that it had been spilled a long time ago.

Clive's expression clearly read that he didn't know what Jet was going on about, until he took a deep breath and stiffened, eyes going wide. He smelled blood. Very close by. On himself. He glanced down, his shirt, vest, trousers and part of his coat covered with the dried flaky substance. "Wha…?" He scratched at a stain on his coat sleeve, the substance peeling away. He instantly clambered to his feet, holding his hands, palm upwards, out in front of him. "I-I… I don't… remember… Oh, my…"

"You were attacked?" Virginia guessed, hoping to throw some light on the mystery.

The sniper looked at her. "Maybe… I think so…" For a moment, Clive thought he recalled the dim remembrance of a figure coming at him armed with something black and sharp. "Yes," He said after a long pause, "I was attacked." He lowered his hands, observing the extra ARM Gallows had brought with him. The Baskar handed him back his weapon, the sniper accepting it gratefully.

Virginia was having trouble meeting Clive's gaze, trying not to look at the stuff he was covered in, and the sharpness of his eyes. She kicked at the grass, dislodging a few blades. "It looks like you won." The drifter remarked. But one thing still hung in her mind, Clive's ARM had spent the night back at the campsite, he had fought unarmed?

Clive checked his gun thoughtfully. "I suppose so." He said, unsure of his memory. "But I believe I may have been affected with amnesia gas during the fight, because I am having trouble recalling… anything." He turned his head to the side and spat on the grass. He was not being vulgar, but the unusual taste in his mouth was beginning to disturb him to a moderate degree. Wait, he still had the breath mint in one hand, that would be useful. Clive put it in his mouth, trying to get rid of the bad sensation.

The oversized priest stepped forward. "Let's just find out about that." He held up two fingers, asking how many Clive could see. He answered correctly and Gallows made a little noise of approval, moving on to some other questions. "Where do you live?" He asked, one eye narrowed in concentration.

"Humphrey's Peak." Clive answered within a second, scratching his itchy hand softly. Yes, that was easy to answer, he had lived there for over eight years.

"Right," Nodded Gallows, "Where were you born?"

"…Little Twister." Came the answer after a short delay, as if the speaker did not want to disclose the information. That town was a cesspool, and he didn't particularly wish to associate it with himself.

"Ri-… Really? I never knew that," The Baskar said, tucking the details away into his big, partially-empty head. "Okay, what is _my_ name?"

"Gallows Caradine…" Clive wondered if he had gotten the last name right, but Gallows didn't protest, so he assumed he had pronounced it adequately.

Thinking that Clive was as right as rain, Gallows wrapped up the interrogation with the simplest question he could think of. "What is _your_ name?" he queried nonchalantly.

"Boomer-" Clive froze in his sentence, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "Clive! I mean, I am Clive." He covered his mouth with his hand, surprised at his own answer. So shocked, he could no longer stand up and he fell to his knees, blinking amazedly. "I… uurrmm…" He intentionally muffled his own voice, staring at his feet. Boomer... Boomer who? Why was that name so familiar?

"Okay then, I diagnose you with minor amnesia." Said Gallows, taking out of his large inventory the item used to cure amnesia, a tiny toy gavel. He held it out portentously in front of the amnesiac. "Hold still, and I'll cure all your ails."

Virginia interfered. "Wait. Clive just recovered from something nasty, do you really have to go and knock his lights out so soon?" She smiled at him. "You do feel better, don't you?"

Clive's head jerked up like he had heard a loud noise. He brushed green bangs out of his face, another sense of déjà vu settling on him like a film of dust. "I feel better than I am." He said quietly, unsure if he should be happy or confused. Finally, he regained his footing without any extra effort, removing his coat and shaking dried blood out of it's red creases. The blood had an awful stench, more powerful than he would have anticipated. Then again, everything smelt stronger to him now, he could even smell the chlorophyll present in the green fields they stood on. "Should we go?" He wanted to get out of here. 

"Do you want breakfast first?" Said Virginia, "You haven't had any food for ages." She had not been the only one who had become aware of Clive's recent aversion to foodstuffs.

Clive refused the offer. "No thank you. I have already eaten." He replied automatically, though he did not remember when or where. All he knew was that he was no longer starving. A good thing, probably.

"Can we go now?" Muttered Jet. Now that they had found their missing comrade, he was eager to get to the town so that great big bounty could be his. Clive seemed to be okay, not hurt, and that was enough for him. His worries over, he reverted back to the cold-hearted person he had always remained.

"If everyone feels up to it, Claiborne is just a short walk away." Said their leader, judging their position from what Jet had told them. Gallows reluctantly put away his toy hammer, eager to have used it. Head bowed in melodramatic misery, he plodded away in the direction Virginia was pointing, wanting to say some more about his aching feet, but refraining because it would not have made any difference.

They walked in line, Gallows first, then Virginia, followed by Jet with Clive bringing up the rear. The rather large gaps in Clive's memory were beginning to disturb him, and even worse, the faint fragments of dreams did nothing but complement and fill the missing voids. But, he was a grown man, and he was naturally well-adjusted to frequent nightmares, what with all the things he had seen in his lifetime.

Yet, Clive was calm. Cool and calculated, to him it seemed like all these problems were not his own and merely the fabrication of some other lifeform. He felt... split, like he was two people, and at the same time, just simply himself. It was hard to grasp, and ever harder to explain. 

If that was correct, he could only ask himself one question. Who was that other self? And why did it frighten him? 

Clive tapped Jet on the shoulder as they walked, looking at the boy sternly. "Jet, have you been drinking?" He asked, prompting the boy to stop walking, glancing at the older man. True, he had taken a small sip of something to help him sleep, he was suffering from a slight bout of insomnia, but that was well over twelve hours ago.

"How… do you know?" He murmured, putting forward his pace again. Clive followed him, shrugging.

"I am not sure… I think I can smell it on your breath." He answered slowly, dusting off more flakes of dried blood. Whatever had attacked him last night, it sure bled a lot. Clive hoped that the inn they were heading for had a decent place to bathe, he really smelt bad.

Jet breathed on his hand and held it to his nose, not detecting any whiskey on his breath, nor any lingering taste on his tongue. "So what?" He said defensively, the wind blowing his hair and bandanna back in a pleasant way.

"You really should not drink at your age. Your metabolic equilibrium is not as fortified as Gallows, myself, or Virginia. I understand that mentally, you are an adult, but you must remember that your body is still quite young." Clive cautioned Jet frankly, listening to the crunch of green foliage under his feet. He had only barely noticed this, but all of his senses had been finely tuned, it was like a shroud had fallen away from his mind, seeing the world from a much better and unnatural perception.

Jet scowled, "What are you, my father?" He said, annoyed. "Leave me alone." The silver-haired boy turned his stride into a power walk, catching up with Virginia and Gallows who were far ahead. His bad attitude was merely a sham in order to get away from the sniper, a force within him making the android apprehensive of the other man's presence. He didn't know why, but he had to get away.

Clive watched him leave with a blasé expression on his face, content to walk alone if he had to. So softly that it could barely be heard and not even sure why he was doing it, like an instinctual motion, he growled threateningly, narrowing his intensely piercing eyes.


	15. Realisation, Blood Of The Demons

Claiborne. A tiny little hamlet nestled by the side of a wide green ocean, it was not a very rambunctious town, the peak of it's lively activities was when Otto, the ARMsmith, would sporadically fire a few vertical shots into the air to test the functionality of a customer's weapon. A few trees spired up near the wooden buildings, old and sturdy. They had been there for a long time. The houses had come later, as a long time ago the entirety of Westwood used to be one giant forest. Only the lost sediments remained to see the new environment, next to the humans that treasured their company. Claiborne was a town known for their high-quality cattle and livestock, the surrounding turf excellent to raise a hearty herd of beasts. It was also a quiet place, secluded from the gunslinging hubbub of the drifter world and their exciting exploits. For a person seeking peace, Claiborne was heaven on earth.

But not today.

Clive was the first to sense the disturbance, but knew not where the sensation had come from, manifesting itself as a gut feeling that he was walking into a mess he didn't want to step his feet in. There were other subtle indicators that merely augmented this feeling, common knowledge explaining to him an overlooked fact. Claiborne was a livestock breeding town, so where were the animals? The plains they walked upon were as empty and quiet as a graveyard. Not a dot or shadow far off in the distance resembled any horses or cows. Nothing at all.

The other three eventually came to the same question, although it was not spoken among them and kept to themselves, they all wondered why they were so alone. Farmers certainly wouldn't just leave their stock in the barn on such a beautiful day. Something was up.

Whistling a fiercely aggravating tune, Gallows sauntered into the town, exaggerating the swing of his arms and pretending to march like a soldier. He whirled around and faced Virginia, bowing with embroidered reverence. "I have completed my mission and contacted home base, my wonderful and sparkly leader. May I please go and soak my feet now?" He grinned, taking his shoes off was the most important thing on his mind at the moment. Walking everywhere really hurt his poor little feet.

"Go soak your head." Muttered Jet under his breath. Clive caught what he said and tried not to snicker. Gallows faked an indignant expression, redirecting his bow to the silver-haired boy.

"Yes, your assholiness! I shall go do that this instant!" And he ran to the Horse Theft Inn, leaving a peeved Jet behind. Virginia giggled, lightly patting Jet on the back before she followed the Baskar to their destination.

Clive looked around the town with a discomforting sensation. It had been a few months since he last visited this place, but he had the feeling that it was much, much shorter than that. Maybe, he had a dream? He was unsure. "Jet? Do you sometimes experience a sense of déjà vu?" Clive asked, then immediately realised how tactless his question was. He instantly regretted having opened his mouth.

Jet glared at him like he had just been insulted. "I don't have enough memories for that." He grumbled, stomping to the inn.

The sniper moved to adjust his glasses, and realised, with a shock, that he wasn't even _wearing_ his glasses. Clive hadn't even noticed that he was missing them. Surprised, he waved his hand in front of his face and saw everything with perfect clarity. He had 20/20 vision, no, probably even better than that. Nonplussed, he could only begin to speculate the mystery behind this. Usually, he couldn't even see two feet ahead of him without corrective lenses, not since the accident eleven years ago that had-

But that was all in the past now. Had that Baskarian medicine fixed his vision? Clive didn't know, and that lack of knowledge was an unfamiliar element in Clive's psyche, one that he wanted no longer.

The others were leaving him behind, so he picked up his pace and followed them into the building. For some reason, the last thing he desired right now was to be alone.

xxx

Gallows swung open the doors to the inn with a proud confidence, thundering inside, the spurs on his boots clanking, hands spaced apart and near the trigger of his faithful Coyote. Well, he wasn't going to use it, but he had seen how cool it was to enter a saloon this way, and he wanted to try it out for himself.

The effect was lessened somewhat as a high-speed object slammed into his side and grabbed him in a wrestle-lock hug. His first reaction was to pry the thing from off his bare chest, but he noticed the cowboy hat and long red plait and did the opposite. He hugged her back. "Becky! Hey, uh, what's the problem?"

"Gally!" She wailed, pressing herself deeper into his hug. She was sniffing and it looked like she had just finished crying. "It was awful, it was _so _awful…" She grabbed the side of his jacket and refused to let go.

__

Whoa. I've heard of clingy women before, but jeez…

"Becky girl, um, did I miss something? What's the matter?" Gallows patted her back soothingly, wondering what was going on. Was it something he had done? Girls always found some way to blame him…

"No, no, sugah. It ain't you, it's me. Ah thought Ah'd die, it was so awful… Mistah Dessinsey, Otto and Mistah Volks… They're…" Becky didn't finish, she started to cry again uncontrollably. Gallows looked over her hat to the other occupants of the tavern, and some of the mystery became clear to him. Mileux and Martina were running around like crazy with bandages and medicines, in and out of the back room, their faces filled with empathy and compassion for the people they were caring for, who littered the tables of the inn, quiet with concealed pain and anticipation of treatment. There must have been about a dozen of them, and all of them were cut and bruised, beaten and torn.

Gallows suddenly thrust Becky away at an arm's length, horrified. "You're not hurt too, are you?!" he demanded, looking her over for injury. Becky shook her head and released herself from his grip, ending her torrent of tears.

"No. Ah'm okay, it was the others that went to fight the beast. Ah was so scared for them, and Ah couldn't do anything to help." Gallows looked blank as she mentioned the beast, so she decided to elaborate on it further. "Ah was sleeping then, but Ah heard about it from Martina, who heard it from Pike. Poor Pike, he ain't nevah gonna be the same…" 

From over the din of all the people inhabiting the building, one feeble and lost voice stood out from the rest, a low sobbing mingled with harsh breathing. In the corner of the inn sat a young green-haired boy, his head buried in his arms on the table, muffled weeping radiating from his lips. The sight would play upon the toughest man's heartstrings, it certainly struck a chord from within Gallows, no doubt.

"He said he was working late for Mistah Dessinsey, and when he went to the stables at about midnight, he was attacked by a monster that was nastier than Hell itself." Becky continued, "That's what Ah heard. Dessinsey, Otto and Volks heard the screaming, and went to go see what was wrong." The girl shook her head miserably, "But they nevah came back." She pointed to all the assembled victims in the inn and sniffled. "This is the search party. They all caught a glance at the monster and lived to tell about it, but those three, they're dead."

"Monster?" Virginia and Jet had eavesdropped on the conversation, the two drifters had their hands on the swinging door so no sound was emitted as they came in. They had heard everything. Jet looked over at Pike, the boy seemed closed off to the world. Jet strode over to Pike's table, brow furrowed apathetically.

"Hey kid, you okay?" He received no coherent answer except for a pitiful blubber. Unperturbed, Jet dug his hand underneath the tousled mass of green hair and lifted Pike's head so they could see each other. Pike had deep rings around his reddened eyes and dried-up rivers of tears down his cheeks. Three diagonal slash marks extended from the base of his chin and up his right cheek, the cuts were shallow and had been treated, but it would leave him a nasty scar. An unhealable one to match the mental scars within.

"J-Jet? Ohhhh…" Pike buried his head in his arms again, not wanting to see the world and what it had done to him. "I saw it, I saw it…" Jet looked down, Pike's leg was bound by a bandage lengthening up the entire limb, and it was twisted to an unnatural angle, red stains seeping through the white fabric. A crutch was leaning up against Pike's side, it undeniably had belonged to Volks, and Jet felt the slightest trace of sympathy for the boy. Pike had become a cripple, in all probability he would never be able to walk without aid ever again.

"What did you see?" Jet asked, "What do you remember?"

Pike chuckled brokenly. "Remember? Yes, I remember. It is a memory I would like to forget. It reached me before anybody else, but the other three got me out before it could finish me off. It killed them, and the horses… The bodies are in the stables… Too much blood everywhere…" Pike choked on his words and could not continue. Jet just patted him with silent sympathy and let the boy droop back into his misery. The drifter stepped away as Virginia tried her own form of interrogation.

"The monster, what did it look like?" Virginia's rubbed Pike's back to quieten the boy's sobs. Pike recognised her and nodded, rubbing the cuts on his face. He had a very good photographic memory, and if that could help anyone, he would recall whatever he could.

"It had claws, and teeth, and a tail. I thought it was a big dog, or a wolf or something, but it stood on two feet and it was wearing human clothes. It was scary, Otto managed to fend it off so I could escape, but my leg…" Pike took up Volks's crutch and limped over to Jet, dragging the dead limb behind him. "I guess I can't complain, at least I survived…" His foot caught on the leg of a chair and he tumbled forward, luckily caught by Virginia. He straightened himself up, blushing. "I'm sorry." he apologised.

"A wolf?" Jet said to Virginia before glancing at Gallows. He was sitting at a table and trying to convince Becky to drink something to calm her down. From his pocket he procured the tooth he had taken from the monster the other day, rolling the object in his palm. "You think it could still be alive?"

"Not a wolf," Disagreed Pike despairingly, "It looked like one, but it wasn't a wolf. It was more… human."

Clank. All the heads in the inn were turned to the entrance as the loud rotund echo of a sizeable ARM clattered to the floor, thankfully unloaded, or else it may have hurt somebody. Clive scanned the crowd, filled with pain-stricken faces, and took a step back, shaking his head. "No…" he said as if he was denying something. "No…"

"Clive?" Gallows tilted an eyebrow in confusion, the sniper looked like he had just witnessed a murder. His hand went to massage his shoulder, he was scarcely breathing.

A memory. Glass tinkling. A burning fire. A chair being swung, smashing into his chest. A small ARM fired into the air. A scream. Fearful whinnying. A prayer for it to stop, red oozing down the walls…

"No!" Clive left his Gungnir lying on the ground as he exited the building, turning on his heel to a sharp left and heading for Dessinsey's stables of prize-winning horses. He had heard everything, all of Pike's testimony, and he could remember something, almost, and he feared it, because-

No, it was a dream!

The doors of the stables had been barred by a thick wooden plank, whether to keep people out or to keep something in was unknown, but Clive saw that one of the windows were broken so it wouldn't have helped much anyway. He wrapped both arms around the plank and heaved as hard as he could against the weight, straining. It would have taken at least five men to set this barricade, how could he hope to remove it by himself? But Clive wasn't thinking straight, and so he tried with futility.

It was almost as if a switch had been turned on inside Clive's body, and the effort needed to move the obstacle suddenly decreased by at least ten fold. Wood scraped against wood as the plank was hauled up and tossed aside, no longer a blockage. Clive raised a booted foot and kicked the wooden door in, panting as the strain took it's toll.

Then he paused, hesitating. He didn't want to go in. Because he knew what he'd see, and he was afraid of the truth, it might mean untold pain to everybody he cared about, including himself.

"Yo!" Clive groaned inwardly. Why did they have to follow him? "What the hell is wrong with you?!" Gallows and Virginia's faces mirrored the same sentiment as they approached, standing behind him.

"I'm sorry," Clive sighed, dejected. "But I have to go in. I have to see the truth. I know you probably do not understand, but I must."

Virginia, Gallows and Jet looked at each other. They all came to a silent conclusion, their leader verbalising it for them. "We are behind you every step of the way." She said solemnly.

A fetid stench wafted out of the stables, it was a familiar smell to all of them, it was the smell of death. For Clive it was almost overpowering, all he wanted to do was run away and go somewhere safer. Instead, he forced his hands to stay by his sides, biting his lip and stepping into the horror house that mirrored his inner torment.

xxx

Earlier in the morning, it had taken a joint effort by most of the hale townspeople just to be able to survey the damage and loss of life. It took five tries from five different people to enter the stables before they found a man who didn't become violently ill at the scene, and even so, it was traumatic.

Virginia immediately turned away, grabbing the first thing she saw for solace, namely Jet, who did the only thing that came to mind and put his arms around her, squeezing his eyes shut and cursing profanely. Gallows's mouth hung open in a huge gape, he had seen exploded orcs that looked prettier than this mess.

The walls were splashed red with a sticky, easily identifiable substance that had dripped down the wall and dried there, like a half-finished paint job. A lantern flickered on one of the stalls, surprisingly, it had not been knocked over and continued to burn brightly. Straw was strewn over the floor, and it stuck to the three bodies lying flat on the ground, bent into an abnormal position. They were corpses, half eaten, bone and muscle shaved off the body, huge bite marks scored across the flesh. Unidentifiable and lifeless, they lay there like the centerpiece to a morbid piece of artwork, black and blue from a beating, pale and blotchy from a lack of blood. One of the carcasses was missing an arm, and Gallows spotted it hanging suspended from a hook attached to the wall, the loose fingers dangling and ugly.

The horse stalls were ripped open, and two great lumps were sprawled out of their domiciles, proud stallions sharing this place of death with the humans that had raised them. They lay propped up against their stalls, tongues hanging out of the sides of their mouths, in the particular signature of the monster, their stomachs were split open, yellowed rib bones contrasting with the ebony hair the animals were coated in. Innards slicked the floor with blood and stomach acid, and the fours drifters just stood there, as frozen as stone statues.

Words caught in Clive's throat, they didn't mean anything, and he could not say them. He could feel his own colour drain away from his face, a sinking feeling dragging his very soul back into Hades. He closed his eyes and shook, a million thoughts overloaded his body and he did nothing. Because, because…

Clive remembered _everything_.

xxx

He could only get a short distance away from the stables before his legs failed him and he fell, hands slapping on the ground to prevent himself from hitting his chin, not that he would have noticed, he was far too afraid. Cold sweat beaded on his face as he took rapid gasping breaths, trembling. Eyes wide open, he immediately knew what was wrong with him, why he could sense so much more, why he was different. The answer was simple, and it echoed through his mind with ambient finality.

He was a monster.

Last night, five honest hard-working men had met their maker under his own direction. He had sentenced five people to death. And not a peaceful death, either. They had screamed, begged, cried for it to stop, even as the life was squeezed or rent out of their bodies. Murderer, that was what he was, a killer. His shaking hands balled into fists, drops of cried tears landing on the back of his hand and sliding down the side. That was not the worst part. The worst part was, the worst part was…

In his recollection, he could not deny the fact that he had enjoyed it. The pain, the change, it was all a matter to be endured until the true purpose of everything could come out. He knew what he wanted, and he had taken it without thought or foresight. Clive had killed because he was hungry, and the remains…

He grabbed his throat, going into a fit of dry heaves, hating the taste of blood in his mouth that nothing could dispel. He tried to throw up, but he couldn't, his subconscious's intent to keep him sated. In his dream, a man named Zeik had called him the Cannibal, he had eaten human flesh…

Gods, he felt awful.

Clive pounded his fist on the ground and swore. He felt too shaky to get up and he didn't know what else he could do. No, he had to get away from here, from his friends and from the people of the town. He was a danger, he _had _to get away.

But, he couldn't move as the three other drifters approached, and he was far too choked up to tell them to go away. He just sat there on his knees, crying silently.

Gallows's nicely tanned skin was turned pasty-white at the gory sight of the stables, more like a bloodstained abattoir than a home for horses, to the mind of the Baskar. He was almost knocked down by Clive, the older drifter gasping, looking like he had seen a ghost, then he had spun by one hundred and eighty degrees, sprinting as fast as was humanly possible away from the terrible scene.

When Virginia tried to place a gentle hand on his shoulder for comfort, Clive surprised her greatly by staggering forwards to his feet and twisting his body so that he stood a few paces away from the others, in a position barely a hair's breadth away from a fighting stance. He hid his trembling well, but just looking into his unnaturally focused eyes you could see exactly how frightened he really was. "Don't touch me," He croaked with suppressed emotion, "Don't even come near me." He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously as Virginia slowly shook her head in refusal.

"Clive, you haven't been acting like yourself. If there is something wrong, we will try to fix it. You can trust us, because we're your friends." She stepped forward, extending her hand to him. "Please, tell us what's wrong."

Clive looked down at her white-gloved hand in longing, he wanted to trust them, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he could, but what he feared, and what prevented him from moving closer, was that the person he couldn't trust, was himself. Clive swatted Virginia's hand away, backing up against the main wall of the ARMsmith building. He could go no further as he felt his back pressed up against the wooden boards and he wished desperately that he was somewhere else. If he trusted and remained with them, if he became a… a monster again, they would suffer. And it would be all his fault. 

"You do not understand. The horses, and the people, I… I…" How had this happened? Why? No, Clive didn't want to think about anything. It hurt, it hurt too much to think. The word repeated itself in his head on a constant loop. Monster, monster, monster…

Clive glanced at his hand. He hadn't noticed it before, but he had a dark red substance embedded underneath the cuticles, dried blood, or strips of degenerate flesh, maybe? If he stayed, that might be all his dear friends would be reduced to. He could not let that happen.

"What? Clive, please tell us!" Virginia begged, emphasizing her statement with her pleading tone of voice.

"I KILLED THEM!" Yelled the sniper in a violent outburst, provoking Virginia to step away from him. Clive's eyes blazed, and they looked inhuman. "I am a monster, a demon! You must stay away from me, lest I do something neither of us wishes to happen. It would be so easy… for me to lose control. I remember… Please, stay away…" Clive slumped, his rage spent. He wiped his face and attempted to back away a little more, temporarily forgetting that he was cornered. Giving up, he slid down to meet the ground, resting with his legs crossed, head bowed.

Moving forward and kneeling so he was looming over the agitated man, Gallows scratched his chin thoughtfully, trying to remain objective over the predicament their team was going through. What Clive was babbling about _did_ make a little sense to him, it would explain all the bizarre changes his spirit had undertaken in the past few days. But Clive didn't feel like a demon, not exactly, and Gallows would have stubbornly refused to admit it if he did. The truth was, ever since the early morning, Gallows had sensed demon energy mixed with a Guardian, and a powerful one at that. Who, or what, was Clive turning into?

"A demon, you say? You killed those people, why?" The Baskar questioned without pressure. He wasn't sure if he was humouring him or not, but he had to make Clive feel comfortable enough to speak with him. Clive's shoulder twitched and he hiccoughed once, but refused to say any more.

"You're not seriously sayin' that he's part demon?!" Exclaimed Jet with incredulity. Jet had always assumed the fact that he was travelling with humans, and he trusted them, as humans. Was it possible that it was not so? It might have been a selfish thought, but Jet didn't want to see another person have to go through what he was forced to undertake. It was far too painful.

"I dunno. But if he believes that… Nobody knows their own body better than themselves, right? Besides, I think… he might be telling the truth." The words Gallows spoke knocked Virginia out of her silence, the female drifter finding herself previously too dumbstruck by Clive's proclamation.

"No! That can't be true! The demon race was destroyed and Hyades shut off from the rest of Filgaia forever! The prophets are dead! No more demons can be spawned, and I refuse to believe-"

"Ginny!" Gallows butted in with retaliation, raising a hand, "Invoke your medium and sense what I sense. Then, tell me if you think Clive is lying. I hate to admit it, but maybe all the pieces will fit if you give it a shot."

Virginia shook her head obstinately and with conviction. "I don't have to. I know what I know, and Clive is not a monster, he is our friend."

But Jet had a different opinion, his connection through the Hope Shard conveying to him all the information he needed. He closed his eyes in defeat and exhaled, giving in to what he knew was the truth. "I sense a demon presence." He said simply, moving next to Gallows and standing near the sniper. As expected, the sensation only got stronger as he got closer to the man. Yet something didn't seem right, the mediums, though they recognised Clive as a demon, had absolutely no fear of him, and even continued to supply him with their powers.

"No. No, it's a lie. Clive is human!" Virginia declared tenaciously. "And he didn't kill those people, it would be impossible, the bodies were torn to shreds, Clive couldn't have done that!"

Laughter. Everyone was shocked to hear it, but it was a tired and defeated laughter, as if it's owner no longer cared very much for himself, or anything else. It was Clive's mental release valve, when things got too difficult, all he could do was laugh at himself, at what he had deemed to be so important in his life. It calmed him down a bit, and he could think straighter than before. He laughed, because he knew he was turning into a demon. He was touched by the fact that Virginia cared for him so, but she had to be brave enough to see the truth. Because even if the truth hurt, it had to be endured.

"Virginia, I'm sorry, but you are in denial. Please accept the truth like the others have, and let me go. I have to leave here soon, before I lose what semblance of sanity I have left." He raised his head and pointed to his face, a surprisingly unconcerned visage meeting her gaze. "Look into my eyes and tell me if you think they are demon eyes or not."

She stared purposefully at him, but it only took her a few seconds before her resolve crumbled. Virginia covered her face with her hands, sighing. "Oh Guardians, he's right. But no, this can't be true… He couldn't have killed them, he's not physically capable…"

"Demons do not generally assume a human form one hundred percent of the time." Clive answered, personally wondering how he could remain so calm in a situation like this. Was he just pushing away his own fear? It was most likely that he was slowly going crazy. Indifferently, Clive addressed Gallows curtly with a request. "Please, my friend. You are capable of performing the sleep Arcana?"

"Yes." Replied Gallows, for as long as he was connected to the Moon Spark, the darkness Guardian would offer him her strength.

"I would like you to… please knock me out. I cannot think straight, I need to rest. And, I believe that I have to find myself, in my dreams." He didn't rightly know what he was going on about, but for some reason he felt he could trust his own words. And if he was not conscious, there would be no way he could hurt anyone. Clive needed this reality to melt away, because he was not yet ready to face it again.

The Baskar understood him as clear as mud. But he got the general gist of the plea, and released the sleep Arcana over his friend, Clive plummeting into a slumber, being caught by Jet and Gallows before he hit the floor. Jet grunted in exertion as he struggled with the priest to counterbalance Clive between them, he had gotten much heavier than yesterday. _What the…? What's he made of? Metal? Sheesh…_

Gallows was in deep thought as they dragged Clive back into the inn. They stopped for a second at the reception desk, but Mileux merely smiled and waved them into the guest rooms, free of charge. She reckoned, after such bad fortune for the town, it would be a sin to ask for money at a time like this. Pike was still seated at a table, but this time he had cried himself to sleep, even though it was still daytime. He mustn't have slept much last night, if at all. Volk's crutch lay by his side, and with it lay a disturbing animosity, for Pike would feel it's support for the rest of his natural days.

__

He says he's a demon, but that can't be true, 'cause the demon race scares the bajeezas out of the Guardians, and they seem to be pretty much okay with him, so far. What is he, then? A hybrid? A human? What? Gallows and Jet had just enough time before they lost their grip and dropped the unconscious Clive on the nearest bed. Gallows shook the tension out of his arm, strained from the heavy weight. Virginia entered the room sadly, listlessly staring at the floor.

"He can't be a demon, he can't be…"

But nobody could prove it. And nobody tried.


	16. The Dream

Gungnir was placed beside Clive's bed with care, Jet took the extra moments to remove the magazine, rendering the large weapon useless to everybody. It was a precaution, Clive was not in his right mind, and Jet would keep him disarmed until otherwise. He poked the bottom of the clip, releasing the bullets from the green compartment and pocketing them. There weren't that many of them, only three, but the cartridges were big, making up for that fact. Clive preferred accuracy over quantity, the boy had the opposite belief. Jet figured that if you just shot the target like crazy for a while, you'd eventually hit something, which was why he was so partial to the fiery machine gun, over the precise sniper rifle. It was a matter of personal preference, but interesting to think about.

Gallows paced a few feet away restlessly, wracking his brain for information he was loathe to admit he did not have. The Baskar had been courteous, sending his girlfriend home with the advice that she should get some rest and a quick kiss of parting. That had taken place about an hour ago, and for that hour Gallows had continued to pace, thinking.

Clive did not move and had gone cold, he could easily be mistaken for dead if it was not for the slight rising and falling of his chest, shallow breathing. Virginia was sitting at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together and resting in her lap. She was watching Gallows pace, but wasn't really registering the information, her thoughts were directed inward.

__

He has been acting strangely, and strange things have been happening to him, he even attacked Jet too, and it would explain where all the blood on his clothes had come from… But, I just can't believe it, ever since Halloween…

She immediately found her footing, shouting a little too loudly than what she had intended to. "That's it! Halloween! Gallows, didn't you say the other day that unusual things take place on that occasion? Wasn't that when Clive started to act funny?"

Gallows paused in mid-step, considering what Virginia had said. "You think there's a connection?" He asked, glancing at Clive. Was she suggesting they involve the supernatural in all of this? But Clive already was part-demon, fuelled by a Guardian, the supernatural had practically shoved itself right in their faces.

"This is 'prolly your area," Cut in Jet softly, leaning against the wall of the inn and fingering something small in his hand, "But didn't the monster they saw resemble a wolf?"

"That's what Pike said." Gallows affirmed, sitting down on a spare bed. Awaiting this moment for a long time, he took off his shoes and breathed a sigh of relief, wriggling his toes and enjoying the un-constricting feeling that only a nice pair of socks could bring.

This room was empty save for themselves, they had locked the door, but they could still hear the sounds of the injured search party through the thin walls. It made the Horse Theft Inn seem like an anteroom, while the people around them awaited the summons. Jet felt a sense of exhaustion in this room, it made him hard to think and reason, and those abilities were drained by the mutual dysphoria gathered in the air. "So," Jet continued, "Wasn't the monster Clive had slain also a wolf?" He threw the white fang to the priest, letting him examine it closely.

Gallows ran his thumb over the fang, it would have made a very nice piece of ornamental jewelry in the hands of a good craftsman, he thought he may have seen something similar to this a long time ago, when he was just beginning his priesthood training. It was something his grandmother had shown to him and Shane, explaining to them something of dire importance. Of course, that was what _she_ had said, and Gallows had zoned out on that lesson, deeming it unimportant information. He wanted to kick himself, how wrong he had been. Gallows smacked himself in the face a few times, trying to jumpstart his brain into recalling the sermon. It was a history lesson, about ancient folklore…

"I think I've heard of this before!" He announced to Jet and Virginia, "Somewhere…"

"You don't remember?" Jet asked, arms folded and ironically berating the Baskar for his loss of memory. He didn't entirely realize what he was doing, and no-one else did, because they were all focussed on Gallows's attempts at recollection.

"Agh… I was half-asleep!" He moaned unhappily, kicking his shoe and getting his sock caught on the spur attached to the heel. He snorted and tried to pry it away, only entangling his foot further. "But we could go and ask Granny herself, and I bet Shane would have some idea too!" He suggested helpfully, pumping a fist into the air. Then he bent down to pull the spur out of his sock, kicking his foot and sending the piece of footwear sailing into the air, towards a certain silver-haired drifter.

Jet dodged, but looked none to pleased at having a smelly shoe thrown at his head. His hand unconsciously stretched to his boomerang, and Gallows blanched. "Accident, accident! Mercy!" Jet sighed and dropped his hands, letting the opportunity to teach Gallows a lesson slide by.

The two men heard a sharp gasp behind them, and turned to see Virginia with a hand to her mouth, bloodstained bandages wrapped around her free hand, she was kneeling against the bed and bending over the sleeping drifter within. As Jet and Gallows had talked, she had taken it upon herself to redress Clive's wound before it became infected. Bandages had to be changed everyday if the injury was to remain sterilised, but what she saw was unlike anything she had anticipated. Virginia pulled Clive's coat over the wound and shuddered. 

"Clive was attacked by a wolf, a grey wolf, right?" She said breathlessly to the others standing behind her. The drifter had to take a deep inhalation before she could proceed, "And a wolf appeared here and killed some people, right? And Clive believes that he did it…" Gallows and Jet moved so they could stand closely behind the girl as she pointed to the area of Clive's shoulder, covered by the coat. The Baskar crouched down for a better view, but Virginia had her hand over the area, as if she didn't want the others to see what she had seen. "I think this might explain something." She finished unhappily, removing her hand and coat from the shoulder wound.

"What… the… fuck?" Jet garbled slowly in astonishment, brushing away a wisp of silver hair out of his vision. Clive made no reaction to everyone congregated around him, the sleep Arcana still as powerful as ever. He looked calm, definitely unaware of the small change to his body that had only recently been noticed.

His shoulder lacked the bruising and bite marks that had spoiled the flesh with an ugly wound, it had vanished, as if he had never been injured in the first place. But what replaced the bite, that was what had startled the others. Fur, a small patch of dark-greyish fur, bordering on a dull blue covered the small area of his shoulder, standing out from the sniper's cold and clammy skin. It was soft and almost downy in appearance, like a newborn kitten or puppy. Virginia bit the inside of her cheek, this was the proof they were looking for, and it was horrifying to realise. "Clive is… the wolf?" She whispered, parting the fur to look for the puncture marks left by the slain wolf's fangs, finding nothing.

"I guess so." Answered Jet stonily, turning away from the sleeping drifter. He wasn't just a demon, he was the one who had injured all those people, did Clive know about that? From his previous reaction, he most likely did, and Jet could understand perfectly why Clive had asked to be put to sleep. He didn't blame him, Jet would have done exactly the same thing.

"Gah! I know this! I should know this!" Gallows was going through his own personal self-torture, mentally revising all the history lessons he had bothered to stay awake for, and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was standing on acid. Human turning into monsters, he had heard about it before, something about a curse, or a blessing, a situation similar to that. It was to do with the Guardian's power…

All he could come up with was zilch, nothing, zero.

xxx

Clive ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him through the velvety blackness of non-reality, the twenty-fifth electrical field, the dream world of humans. Clive didn't know whether he was going fast or slow, or indeed if he was getting anywhere at all, so dark the world was. What was he even looking for? Somebody, a girl, yes, that was it! He was looking for a girl. Who? Identity unknown, but he had to find her.

His breath caught in his throat and his muscles were beginning to burn, he was tiring, and he hadn't even gotten anywhere! He had to continue, he had to kill-

Kill?

Yes, kill.

He wished for a weapon, feeling a tingling sensation in his hand as nothingness solidified into a form, one he could use to fight. Initially, he expected the wood-grained finish of the Gungnir to appear by his side, ready to be aimed and shot, but as his fingers closed around a cold heavy metal, Clive skidded to a halt, the unfamiliar object weighing down his gun arm, or was it now his sword arm?

It was a blade, cold blue and shining in the lack of light, a beautiful sparkle in the darkness. Clive shifted his hand in the worn leather grip, wound meticulously around a material that was none other than pure gold. On the hilt was an engraved design obviously done by a master craftsman, the spine of the sword was a forged illustration of a collapsing tower, at it's base there was the simplistic and melancholy picture of a boomerang, broken in half. A morose depiction printed on such a beautiful blade, an unearthly blade. Clive's eyes widened, a demon blade.

"Have we met before…?"

If Clive had been awake, he would have given great thought to wonder why on Filgaia he was talking to a sword. It was different here, in this dream, he could sense a life force from within the sword, the blade was alive.

Upon realising this, Clive felt like he was hit by a bolt of lightning, revelation flying through his mind. The picture on the blade was _so_ familiar, and the weapon _so_ light, as if it was forged for his hand alone. It was _his _sword, the living weapon, Dark Guardian Blade.

__

No, this is impossible! I have never touched a sword in my life! It cannot be mine, I do not know how to-

****

"Swing." Said a voice with no sound, echoing from every direction. It was full, commanding, absolute. **_"Break the blockage, remember the past. Swing, or she dies."_**

The sword grew heavy like a lead weight, Clive began to struggle just to hold it up. He didn't want to, he didn't know how, and the more he doubted himself, the heavier it became.

"Daddy!" A high-pitched cry of desperation, two forms appeared before him, a little girl, _his_ girl, and a ferocious beast hulking over her, twin claws holding her dangling in the air from her upper arms and letting her hang there limply. Thankfully, she was unhurt, but as Clive stared into the dark red eyes of the monster, he read an undeniable threat that her health was in a stage of transition.

"Kaitlyn!" He cried, heaving the weapon up into the standard attack position, or what he hoped was so, "Don't worry, I am coming to save you!" As he spoke with resolve, his blade lightened dramatically, and he could step forward, not realising that he was doing _exactly_ as the voice commanded.

Then the monster grinned, or at least manipulated his fang-filled maws into the semblance of a grin, making Clive pause, his mind finally assembling a connection. The beast was wearing an exact copy of his clothing, and only stood a little taller, a little broader, than himself.

It was him, in lupine form.

Deeming that he had procrastinated too long, Lupine Clive clenched his claws tightly, squeezing them into the frail flesh of Kaitlyn's arms. The sleeves of her dark blue dress were stained even darker to a purplish colour, and she screamed, an intensely pain-filled cry of agony piercing the atmosphere and cutting straight into Clive's heart. Impaled on the claws, Kaitlyn could not wrestle herself free, because if she tried, gravity would tear those claws further into the flesh and probably shear them off.

Clive felt like he was frozen in a block of ice, cold all over and unable to move. Even if it was a dream, it all seemed so real, so terrifyingly real. Lupine Clive released her and gently wrapped an arm about her middle so one claw was free, never taking his ruby glare off his more human counterpart. He held up the liberated claw, palm out, so Clive could see his daughter's blood run down the tangled fur. He held it there for a few seconds, letting the image sink into Clive's mind. Then, with a cruel growling chuckle, he brushed back locks of Kaitlyn's hair, dying her golden tresses a coppery red. "Daddy…" Kaitlyn sobbed, tugging weakly at Lupine Clive's coat.

Whatever it was that held Clive back shattered into a million pieces, the cold hilt of his sword pulsing into warm life, and in a motion that was far too fluid to be an unfamiliar technique, Clive sprinted forward, grasping the blade with both hands, feinted a kick to the beast's side, held his boot firmly against the monster's stomach, and swung up, twisting the blade and burying it deeply into the monster's chest. The next second took an eternity to experience, he was leaning against his very own antithesis, inches away from both pointed teeth and claws. The blade was sharper than sharpness itself, entering into the monster like a hot knife into butter. Clive felt no resistance as he drew the weapon out again, the creature must had no bones or innards to speak of. A dark black blood, the blood of demons, ran down and out of the side of Lupine Clive's muzzle, dripping onto the top of Kaitlyn's head. Yet, the beast was smiling as it vanished into the darkness, it had not lost at all, it had won.

Clive caught Kaitlyn before she fell, dropping the Dark Guardian Blade, the weapon ceasing to exist outside of Clive's control. Her soft grey eyes were bright with panic and hysteria and the hand attached to her more damaged arm trembled sadly. But she wasn't crying, her eyes were dry, though fear-filled, and she looked upwards at her father, seeing an upside-down image from the vantage point she was sitting at. "Daddy…" She said faintly, her eyes going glassy like a doll's, "They have me, Daddy. You have to help me, you have to wake up and come home… Please…"

"Kaitlyn, I don't understand. Dammit, please don't die!" Clive hugged the girl closer to his body and felt his proverbial heart break as tiny damaged arms were placed around his chest and feeling the little warmth that was his daughter shiver.

"I won't die, Daddy. Not yet. But you have to come home, wake up… Please wake up…" And as her voice faded, so did she, leaving the world created by simple thoughts and electrical impulses. Clive stood bolt upright, looking around frantically for the girl.

"Kaitlyn, what do you mean, _wake up_? Am I dreaming?" of course, why hadn't he seen it before? He was dreaming. He could never hold or swing a sword, it was all fancy, at least, in this world. But still, her words hit him like a large blunt object, a enormous sense of homesickness struck him, and all he wanted to do was go home.

The loud silent voice again, whispering in a tone of amusement. **_"You realise that now? Yes, a dream, a dream of truth. When awake, you dream of delusions, forgetting your true identity. You dream, Boomerang, you dream…"_**

"Boomerang?" He said to the indefinable voice around him, "My name is Clive Winslett!"

A whispering sigh, bearing sorrow and grief. **_"Then, Clive Winslett, wake from your dream."_**


	17. Awakening

His beard was getting long, a little too long, for his liking. Dario scratched at the thick black stubble, knowing that far too many days had passed since he had last had a shave. He hoped they could get to his Boss's 'hideout' as soon as possible, because the road his team walked was an exceptionally tough winding one, and Dario was tiring.

__

Why do we hafta walk? Couldn't we rent some horses, or something? Then Dario had a sudden recollection of his last encounter with a horse, the embarrassing result of two hoof marks on his poor derriere and an inability to sit down for a week. Romero had almost laughed until he wet himself. Yeah, sure, it was funny, but not for him, the victim.

Anyway, Ravendor's 'hideout' was a day's walk and a train ride away, he had been informed by the Boss that it was a hidden pleasantly comforting place, and if it suited Ravendor's high standards, it must be a pretty good joint. Rocks and pebbles rolled underneath his boots, he scuffed them through the dingy dust of the East Highlands, trailing behind the other two drifters as he was carrying their small and mostly obedient hostage, Kaitlyn, obedient only because she had not woken up yet. The chloroform would wear off soon, and Dario wondered about what he could do next. He could repeatedly drug her and just carry her around as dead weight, or he could allow her to regain consciousness, and at least he'd have someone nicer to talk to, it would be better, he had heard somewhere that chloroform killed brain cells. Kaitlyn was only little, he felt bad enough about kidnapping her in the first place, he didn't want to make her suffer any more than she had to. Though he tried his best to deny it, Dario had always had a soft spot for kids.

"You are lagging behind." Ravendor called out to him, melodiously cheerful, hands folded neatly over his chest and black ponytail standing out on his immaculate white clothing. He almost seemed to repel dirt, there was not a speck of dust on him and his face was a fine creamy colour, he did not sweat, even thought the heat was well over forty degrees Celsius. Romero wiped the sweat off his brow with his green bandanna, fantasising with contented quiet of cool oasis's and many beautiful ladies bathing therein.

After that, he idly wondered why people needed to wear so many different layers of clothing on such a hot desert planet, if it would only make them warmer. He answered his own question after a second, rubbing a hand through his blonde hair and reckoning that everyone would eventually catch many forms of skin cancer and die horribly if they dressed so freely. How much time had that mental speculation shaved off? About twenty seconds, damn, and his feet still hurt.

Dario walked faster and caught up to Romero, the two bandits walking side-by-side, a few yards behind Ravendor. Romero looked down at the small bundle of little girl being carried by Dario and sniffed, clearing his throat. "Cute kid." He said, making conversation.

The three started up a small but steep hill, the last obstruction before East Highland Station. Ravendor was walking with his eyes closed, confident and nearly infuriatingly relaxed. Dario shrugged. "I guess so."

Romero got a wicked glint in his eyes. "She's blonde. I like blondes." Dario gave him a sideways glance, he was already well aware of this. Romero was a hopeless pervert, probably the worst the bandit had ever known. His grip on Kaitlyn tightened somewhat, and Dario switched his mental thought processes to a defensive one.

"Yeah, 'cause it's only the bimbos that'll go out with you." He answered gruffly, taking a stab at Romero's love life.

Romero grinned smugly, evilly. Suddenly, Dario didn't particularly like the idea of Kaitlyn being near this guy. "What's wrong with bimbos? They're the best." He fixed the bearded bandit with a sly glance. "'Sides, bro. You're just jealous 'o me, 'cause you haven't had a good lay for ages now. Whaddaya say we take this little blondie girl and-"

Romero did not finish. It was mostly due to the fact that Dario had punched him squarely in the face. He hit the ground loudly with a strident 'thump', absorbing the brunt of the impact with his spine. Romero pressed two fingers to a split lip, staring at the blood mixed with his saliva in astonishment. Dario shook the tension out of his fist and kept on walking, he would make sure that from now on, Kaitlyn would stay in his care. She may be a hostage, but she was still human, and being exposed to sex-starved bandits was something Dario would not let happen.

"Good work, Dario." Said Ravendor, clapping his hands languorously a few feet away. "I knew it would be beneficial to employ you in my services. That child is not to be harmed, until I declare otherwise." Effeminately, Ravendor pointed over the ridge of the hill they were standing on to a small edifice by the railroad tracks, the station. "We are almost there, and you," His straight-laced face hardened as he turned to Romero, "Any damage to the girl will be taken out of your hide. Do you understand?"

The ninja was recovering from the blow, a little surprised at how hard Dario could hit when he tried, but he paid attention to his Boss, confused. "Why? Ain't the brat just our hostage? Why can't we have a little fun?"

For the briefest of moments, pure anger flitted across Ravendor's face, but was buried quickly by a façade of unattached interest. Ravendor closed his eyes and sighed, the imprint of a bitter memory weighing heavily on his heart. "Because she is… Catherine's child." He was met with two clueless and blank stares, not expecting anything more from the minions. Giving up on them understanding, Ravendor skidded down the rocky slope of the hill, towards the station and a swift getaway.

Unnoticeable, Kaitlyn shifted in her sleep, just on the edge of waking up.

xxx

The roof had cracks in it, dark branch-like lines running around the edges of the whitewash ceiling and dull splotches of unidentifiable substances scattered along it's area. Not many people would become aware of this, as you don't usually look up and examine ceilings on a regular basis, but this time, Clive did, because he had just woken up and was still trying to register feeling in his arms and legs. His chest was killing him, a concentrated painful burning sensation in his sternum, like he had been stabbed by something exceedingly sharp. He rubbed the affected region tenderly, propping himself up with an elbow and blinking his eyes tiredly. The mildly lucid chorus of a deftly played variation of 'Classical Gas' wafted around the small room, emerging from the Baskar nearby who had his eyes half-closed, oblivious to the world around him, except for the music he played. Jet was diligently polishing his favoured ARM, close to Virginia who seemed to be in an advanced state of moping, most likely on his account.

The second stage of his condition hit him moments after, a colossal headache knocking him full in the face. It felt like a hangover, only much, much worse. Clive groaned, pressing a hand to the side of his head, attracting the attentions of the other occupants in the room. Three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him, and Clive had no choice than to meet them, though it hurt to do so. How would they react, now that they knew he was a demon, a murderer? Would they hate him, _did_ they hate him, knowing that he had stained his hands with so much blood, in direct opposition to the pristine morals they had chosen to uphold? Yes, they would, they _should_, demons were a foreign body on Filgaia, a hated one. Clive knew, that by logic, they should hate him.

"I… need a drink." It was the last thing he wanted to say, and by a stupendous lack of sense, he had actually said it. What else _could_ he say? He didn't think he could phrase anything right, his wits were scattered, and he didn't know where they went. Jet was the only one who responded to the request, tossing him a small metal flask with a intricate dragon design weaving around it's sides.

"Here," He said quietly, "This'll wake you up." Without questioning him, Clive unscrewed the small lid on the bottle, not wasting any time and downing it's contents as quick as possible, barely even registering what it was he was drinking. The bite came a split second later, and he started coughing, it was a strong whiskey, brewed in Little Twister, if Clive knew his liquor right. "Good stuff, eh?" Jet continued, watching Clive nod through his coughs. They subsided after a time, and he looked around the room, pausing to observe the female drifter sitting nearby Jet. Clive sighed, this must be very hard on her.

"I'm sorry Virginia," Clive apologized, looking downcast, "Please don't be upset." She glanced up at him, almost angrily, before shifting her gaze to the ground. She could not meet his eyes.

"So, you're a demon, huh?" She murmured, almost casually, as if nothing was wrong. "How can you stand it, aware of what you are? I couldn't- I mean, I can't believe it."

Clive slowly screwed the lid on the flask back in place, taking an incredibly long time to complete the simple task, postponing his inevitable answer. "I don't know." He said finally, looking as if every word he spoke brought him pain. "What else can I do? I don't know what… I feel… lost." He rubbed his hand over his face, the silver burn still discomforting him somewhat. He must be the only demon left on Filgaia, his team had personally seen to the extinction of the demon race, he was all alone. Virginia was right, how could he stand it? So this was what it felt like to be a loner. Clive passed the bottle back to Jet, Jet the singular Filgaia Sample, understanding a little more of his silver-haired friend than he thought possible. Loneliness, it hurt like a deep knife wound, twisting in his flesh.

"But I understand this," Clive continued, dropping his gaze to the simple peach coloured fabric he was sitting on, a soft and calming hue. There was a framed picture above his bed, and he analysed it for a while, a painting of a mountaintop. He didn't know why he was noticing such unimportant things, but he assumed it was a subconscious attempt to sidetrack himself. "You all hate demons, don't you? Because of what they did to Filgaia. So I understand… if you don't want to be near me anymore, I don't mind. If you hate me, I'll leave quietly." Clive slid himself off the bed, his headache increasing as he stood up straight. If he left now, if he went far away, they would be safe, and that was all Clive wanted, even if it meant he had to be alone. He turned to pick up his ARM, unaware that it was unloaded, and headed for the door. 

But Virginia was blocking the way, arms spread to impede both ingress and egress from the room. Her face was set hard in fuming anger, and her arms were shaking. Clive did not expect this, and honestly did not welcome it. "Let me go, Virginia." He said firmly, ARM slung over his shoulder, "Get out of my way."

He did not expect the sharp biting pain as she slapped him, hard and fast. Jet and Gallows practically cowered in their seats, they had never seen Virginia so upset before, not a screaming or raving anger, but a powerfully suppressed fury, she looked like she might explode at any given moment. Clive raised his hand to feel the red handprint-shaped mark on his cheek, dazed.

"How dare you," She seethed through clenched teeth, "How dare you even _consider_ leaving us? I thought we were your friends, you bastard. I don't give a damn _what_ you are, you could be a prophet for all I care, but you are our friend, Clive. We won't leave you alone when you need us the most." She exhaled all her anger, and it departed, making her a lot less scary. "The others are with me too on this, I don't have to ask them, I know."

Clive turned, facing back into the room again. Jet and Gallows stared back at him with steadfast expressions. They answered to the silent question Virginia had asked, nodding with perfect synchronisation. The sniper felt a heavy leaden weight fall from his shoulders, and he slumped them, removing the rifle that hung there. There was a table and chair nearby, and Clive sat down heavily, brushing green hair out of his face. Absent-mindedly, he noted that his hair had grown substantially longer than what was deemed normal in such a short amount of time. It was most likely a side effect of his mutation, his body was going haywire, and he could barely even trust his own mind anymore. And still, they wanted him to stay? Friends like this, they must only come once in a lifetime.

"Have you seen my glasses?" He asked them out of the blue. He just didn't feel right without them, despite the fact that he no longer needed them. Virginia searched her pocket and carefully gave them back to the sniper, Clive accepted it thankfully. He put them back on, then removed them for a second, interestingly, he could sense no difference in his vision whether he was looking behind corrective glass or not . His eyes, unnaturally, could adapt to any change in his vision within moments. Clive kept them on, it just felt better this way. Secretly, the other three drifters thought this was a good idea too, because Clive lost the intimidating gaze that had disturbed them before.

Gallows spoke, amazingly, without the buoyant childishness that his friends had learnt to take in stride, he spoke as soberly as an adult, a priest of Baskar. Gallows knew, then and there, that he would be needed, and he had to act as such. "Your dream, did you find what you were looking for?" He asked, setting his instrument aside.

Clive immediately pulled the dream out of his subconscious memory, he had forgotten it until now. He nodded affirmance to Gallows, and now had a fair idea why his chest hurt so much. Ironically, as he had stabbed the monster, he had stabbed himself. But it was just a dream, how could it carry over to reality? Or worse, could the opposite be possible? Well, that was not the important thing, Clive had to figure out what to do. "Everyone," He said resolutely, "I have to go back home, to Humphrey's Peak. I sense that something terrible has happened there, and I have to go."

Gallows scratched his head, the strain of thinking deeply showing up on his facial expression. "I was gonna suggest we head over to Baskar, but if you wanna go home, I'm all for it."

"Are we takin' Lombardia?" Jet questioned, sitting cross-legged on his own bed.

Clive shook his head. "No, we must get there right away. I propose we use the teleport orb, if it is ready for usage. May I please have it?" The red gem, teleport orb. A great and effective tool for travel, it could degrade the bodily structure of an individual to pure energy and transmit the user to any location familiar to the person's memory. However, there was one downside and catch, it only worked once every month, any other time than that, it was just a simple stone.

Virginia checked the luminosity of the orb, an indicator if it was ready to be used. A crimson glow swirled around in it's core, so the orb appeared to be full of heavy liquids and gases, it had a mercurial beauty to it, and a great target to gem-loving drifters. Virginia was just thankful her team had managed to get a hold of it before the Schroedinger gang did. "Yes, we can use it." She replied, passing the orb to Clive. "But we have to leave town first. It won't work indoors."

The team filed out of the inn room after Gallows took it upon himself to unlock the door. But as Virginia moved to leave herself, she felt a cold hand gently hold her back. Clive was smiling ruefully at her, amused by something. "I have just come to realise a certain fact." He said, releasing her hand.

"What is that?" She asked, inwardly grimacing at the mark she had placed on Clive's face. Maybe she had overdone it a little bit.

Clive spread his arms, bringing attention to himself. "You doubted that you could lead this group through to safety and security, through all odds. But Virginia, you are not only doing that most admirably, but you managed to pull me back when I wished to wander elsewhere. I admit that I am wrong and you are right. I could not place my hopes in a better leader, and if Filgaia is to be placed on your shoulders once again, I am one demon who will take it upon himself to help you bear that burden, to Hades and beyond. Thank you, Virginia, you bring me strength." And he left the room with a much lighter heart, he could face the world again, he was ready for this reality once more.

Virginia looked at her hands, she felt much better, but at the same time, much worse. "How can I give you strength," She mumbled, "If I have none of my own?" Jet. She thought of Jet and shook the bad thoughts out of her head. This was not the time to be thinking of such things. Virginia had much more important matters to attend to. She was the leader, she had to lead.

It was her duty.

Her responsibility.

Her ordeal.


	18. The Ballad Of Fallen Angels

Walker was so bored at staring for time immemorial (or at least since this morning) at the large clock sitting on it's proud high pole, ticking the minutes by, that he barely even noticed the addition of three men and a little girl in his presence until the tall dark-haired man waved a hand across his face, waking him from his stupor. Walker blinked a couple of times to ascertain his place in the universe once more, finding himself practically using the bench of his ticket booth as a pillow. Hardly anybody used the trains anymore except for hardcore drifters, and they came only once every few days on an average. It was not uncommon for Walker to take long naps in the middle of the day and no higher authorities being the wiser. It was an easy job to perform, but it was dead boring most of the time.

"Hnungh?" Mumbled the vendor sleepily, picking his head up from the comfortable surface of the bench to address the first few customers he had had all day. "Can I help you?" He slurred.

The dark-haired man smiled bemusedly, deep green eyes giving off a glint of profound intelligence. "I do believe you can." He said, looking like he was succeeding at keeping a straight face over something humorous.

"And that is?" Walker yawned, wondering what was so funny. He appraised the other two men behind the person who was obviously their leader, looking around awkwardly at the trees near the station, reddened leaves indicating the season of Autumn was present and transpiring in the world. One of them fumed quietly and nursed a split lip, shooting dirty glares with his one good eye at a slightly taller bearded man wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a small child very carefully. Neither of them looked too happy, a contrast to the cheerful disposition of their leader.

The leader in question finally laughed, a light lilting sound that smacked of high-bred refinement. "You have something on your face." He informed Walker, pointing to his own face. The vendor touched his cheek and blushed, going an embarrassed red. He must have been drooling in his half-sleep because he had unintentionally drooled on a white sheet of paper and it had welded itself to the side of his face. He yanked it off and slapped it back on the bench, grinning. "Uh, heheh. Do you need tickets to anywhere?" He asked before recognising the girl. "Oh, you have Kaitlyn. Is she sleeping?"

The two bandits immediately snapped to an alarmed attention, thinking that their cover might be blown. Ravendor made a perfect save, his demeanour not shifting an inch. "Yes. I am afraid the poor child exhausted herself last night. It was her birthday, you see." he made the slightest motion to his minions with one hand, causing the other two bandits to nod vigorously. "May we all have tickets to Dune Canyon, please?"

Walker dispensed the tickets while Ravendor procured the money, the vendor pushing forward three adult and one child tickets on the desk. "One hundred and seventy five gella, please." He said, thinking for a second before adding; "And let me ask, does Clive know you're taking Kaitlyn to Dune Canyon?" He pried innocently.

Ravendor handed Walker the money, and a little extra, for a tip. "Indeed he does," Ravendor lied smoothly and convincingly, "Clive is my dear little brother, and because he is currently on a very crucial commission, I find it is my duty to take my lovely niece to Fortune Gear as a birthday present, to wish for another year of good luck." Walker nodded knowingly, it was a long running custom to do such things on special occasions in the East Highlands, though it would have made more sense for Catherine to take her, not some relation that the vendor had never seen before. But, Ravendor seemed sincere enough, and his voice and accent was remarkably similar to Clive's, Walker trusted him.

"Well, have fun." Said the vendor heartily as the small team departed for the platform. "The train will be here shortly." Walker had a weird niggling thought at the back of his head, he didn't think Clive had ever mentioned any siblings before to him, but then again, he didn't know the drifter that well. Maybe he had missed something. Ravendor bowed in a graceful sweeping manner, hand going out in front of his body. It then moved up and grasped Romero's bandanna, gently tugging him along as he left. Dario obediently followed, noting that the girl was beginning to squirm a little, she was slowly waking up.

"I didn't know you were that guy's brother!" Exclaimed Romero disbelievingly, earning an exasperated sigh from their team's leader.

"I am not his brother," Ravendor corrected, releasing the bandanna and therefore the blonde drifter, "I merely lied, you imbecile." Romero took the insult like a physical blow, wincing. Ravendor had a way of making his words sharper than any knife or dagger. His tongue could go from sickeningly sweet, to a fatal poison in the wink of an eye. His mental games and spiteful planning made him so much more deadly than a quick and steady ARM ever could have. As he had mentioned before, why hurt the body, when you can shatter the mind?

__

Hmph. To think that **I**, Ravendor Begucci, could be mistaken for kin of that worthless ruffian? Clive, you may speak as eloquently as I do, but your blood is as common as the trash you were bred from. I have your daughter, and soon, I will have my revenge…

"Boss? Uh, Boss? You're zoning out on us." Dario looked concerned. Kaitlyn was making the small noises that lightly-sleeping people do before they wake, and the train had not come yet. And now, their leader was not responding to his words. Dario honestly did not want a screaming kid on his hands, no matter how cute-looking she may be.

"Hmm? Oh!" Ravendor came out of his muse with a snap, smiling away his surprise. "My apologies. I was thinking." He stood on the small line that showed how far out they could stand without being grazed by the train itself, he leaned over to line to see if the train was coming. The horizon was bare. Ravendor shook his head and tapped one shining black boot rhythmically to the beat of three seconds, taking a drag of his cigarette thoughtfully. "Is anything wrong?"

"Yes. The kid's waking up." Dario held her up carefully as proof. Ravendor carefully inspected her, a hand on his chin in concentrated thought. Aside from the light coloured hair, she looked very much like Catherine, a copy in miniature. How strikingly doll-like she was while asleep, and Ravendor absently wondered if her eyes were the same as her mother's as well.

Her came to a quick decision. "Bind her arms," He said, "Do not continue to drug her. She will be easy to control with the right… methods. Dario, I leave her in your charge." Dario blanched, didn't _he_ get a choice in the matter? "And as I have said before, she is not to be harmed." A thin rope was attached to the dark-haired man's belt, and he removed it with the direction that Dario was to hold out the girl's arms. He did so, Ravendor wrapped the wrists together with a formidable knot, loose enough for comfort but tight enough to hold them firmly together.

__

I am sorry, little Catherine, but it must be done.

He did not know the child's name, coming up with his own variation that would have been cute if used by anyone else other than Ravendor. The train arrived late, the drifter team expected as much from this rail system, it left a lot to be desired. Tony hopped off the train and ushered them in, giving peculiar looks to Dario and Romero, because he had a faint remembrance of them from the transportation of the Ark Scepter that he could not place. But, they were his customers, he had to treat them as such. 

The drifter team found an unlocked cabin, settling themselves down for the descent into the canyon. Dario laid the girl out lying down on the bench they were seated at, giving her some room. Romero and Ravendor shared the other seat, silent as they felt the vibrations of the moving train at their backs and the soles of their shoes. "I forgot to tell you," Ravendor said after a while, smiling like he was conveying good news, "I have a surprise for you once we reach my hideout. I do believe you will appreciate it greatly."

"What is it?" Romero asked eagerly, the images of gold and more gold playing over and over again in his head. He rubbed his hands together at the thought and giggled evilly.

The leader raised his hand and shook it, reprimanding them warmly. "No, no, no. If I told you, then it wouldn't be a surprise. And besides, it would be simply _dreadful_ for you to know before you got there, I wouldn't get to have all my fun." He closed his emerald-green eyes and leant back against the wall, sighing deeply and letting out all his tension. Finally, he stubbed out his ever-present cigarette by dropping it on the ground and stepping on it, grinding the ashes into the floor. A little nap was what he chiefly needed.

"Is there a pisser 'round here?" Romero wondered out loud, looking around the cabin. All he saw was metal and some more metal. Dario rolled his eyes and Ravendor let a small grin spread across his face, though he kept his eyes shut. He pointed to the closed door, breathing out the last few words before becoming silent altogether.

"Go and check in the back," He sighed, "Or open a window." Instead, the ninja opened the door, wandering off to find the facilities he sought. Maybe he could ask one of the train dudes, as he called them. He walked down the hallway and across some of the other compartments, quickly getting lost. He would find his way back, eventually, but Dario and Ravendor got some peace for a time, probably the reason why Ravendor had told him to search in the first place. Dario wouldn't have been surprised, his Boss was fiendishly clever.

But what could a simple bandit do to pass the time while his boss dozed and his bro was elsewhere trying to find his destination with building urgency? Nothing, except stare at the walls or out the window, which wasn't very effective because there was only just sand and dirt outside, with the addition of a few rocks for flavor. As a last ditch effort, Dario made perfectly sure that his Boss was asleep by calling out to him a few times softly, he got no answer and assumed that his coast was clear.

Dario did something very unbandit-like. He pulled out a book, opened it, and began to read. It took him a long time to finish a page, because he had only recently beaten his illiteracy last year, which was one of the hardest things he had ever undertaken. But the book he was reading was fairly difficult, because some of the bigger words were too hard for him to understand. Still, at least he could say he was literate, which meant he could charge a higher price for his services. Sadly, everything in his life somehow ended up revolving around money, whether it was a good or bad thing.

"…uuuunnnnnnnnnn…"

The bandit shoved the book back in his inventory, in case anyone saw what he was doing, abashed. He really did not have to worry too much, because Kaitlyn was waking up. He glanced at Ravendor, but the leader's head was nodding as the cabin bounced around on the rails, he didn't look like he was faking sleep. At last, Kaitlyn opened her eyes.

"…Huuhh… Mister?" She murmured tiredly, trying to rub at her eyes, but finding her arms strangely stuck together. Not only that, but the room she was in was unfamiliar. She could only begin to wonder where she was. The only lead she had was that the nice (She called him nice, for now) man she had met earlier was sitting nearby and staring intently at her. Kaitlyn held her tied-up arms to her face, and rubbed her eyes, finding a way to fix her problem.

"Hello Kaitlyn." Said Dario, taking the time to remember her name. He pushed back his cowboy hat out of his face and tried to smile reassuringly. "My name is Dario." He said this simply, because the girl seemed to be confused, and Dario didn't blame her.

"Mister Dario…" Said Kaitlyn, heaving herself forward a few times before balancing herself enough to sit up straight. "Where am I? …What's going on?"

He wondered how he could phrase this best without the kid freaking out on him. She seemed to be pretty smart, for a kid, but children could get panicky, very easily. "Well," He scratched the back of his head, looking anxiously around the room. "Do you know what a kidnapping is?"

"A… kid-napping?" She echoed him, eyes wide. Kaitlyn had read enough books to know exactly what it was. And now the little girl felt cold all over, the walls appearing to close in on her. Suddenly, she wanted to go home.

xxx

Although the strength Clive claimed to possess was resilient, he still found it extremely difficult to walk down those stairs into the front area of the inn, where all those people, wounded by him, were congregated. He could smell the misery in the air, and if his friends had not been standing beside him, supporting him, he didn't know what he would have done. The scent of herbs and heal berries assaulted his senses as he walked through the twelve or so patients being treated by Martina and Mileux. The town of Claiborne was very fortunate Martina had learned a few skills from Cheville during her travels, or the situation may have become much worse. Clive just wanted to leave this place, and hopefully, never come back. Cuts, scrapes, bruises, Clive could almost remember each individual infliction he had imparted on the search party with a clear memory, and for a second he wished a cloud of amnesia gas would just envelope him forever.

He felt Virginia gently nudge him forward, as his sober thoughts had caused him to freeze in place. Clive looked over the crowd once more. He breathed a sigh of relief. No bites, he hadn't bitten anyone last night, at least not anyone still living, and it was a big relief to him without knowing why. He started walking again, waiting for a moment for Jet to say a few reassuring words to a newly-awakened Pike, about as reassuring as Jet could get. Well, if Jet could be comforting, then Clive could be strong, so he left the inn without looking back, clutching the red teleport orb in both hands.

The day was a fairly windy one, a warm wind from the east bringing tiny nodules of plant seeds sailing through the air and around the town, small leaves from trees far away, so distant and over the horizon. The wind blew Clive's hair in his eyes, and when he pulled it away again he got the sense that the town was tired, almost as tired as himself. His shoulder felt itchy, but he did not scratch, because he knew what he'd find if he did. Horrible disgusting fur. Ugh, it made him feel sick.

The swinging doors creaked closed behind him, the memory figure stationed nearby making a responsive clicking whir to the noise. Clive looked at the small robot in thought. They were such unusual objects, those figures that stand with boundless patience and a bizarre little bopping dance to pass the time. Clive thought that maybe he should set away some time in the near future to have a chat to one and recount his experiences, doing so with a memory figure always made him feel much better. That was their purpose, to record memories, wasn't it? But maybe he shouldn't say anything, it might be better to bury those particular memories, if all they brought and spoke of was pain.

"Are you alright?" Clive looked up, Virginia had been talking to him for a while and he hadn't noticed. Clive nodded but didn't respond verbally, paying attention to the stables next door. He still felt guilty, and those feelings of guilt wouldn't go away until he did something about it.

"Please excuse me for a moment." Clive said, turning back into the inn just as Jet and Gallows came out. He narrowly brushed past Gallows's shoulder, both of them halting for a second as their auras grazed each other. Gallows involuntarily shuddered and Clive's spirit fell.

"Poor kid," Said Jet, another irony because Pike was many years older than himself. "Whatever the hell it was that Clive did to him, it's gonna stick with 'im forever." Jet tugged his guard glove on tighter, flexing his fingers against the leather coating.

"Don't think of it as Clive doing it," Gallows disagreed, waving his hands negatively, "I don't think he had much choice in the matter."

"I wish you were not incorrect," Clive interrupted suddenly, making Gallows jump from behind. The sniper was carrying several white linen sheets, borrowed from Mileux. "But I did have a choice, and I simply selected the wrong one." He folded the sheets once so they were easier to carry, stowing the teleport orb away in one of the pockets of his coat. "If you will please wait here for a short while, there is one last matter I need to attend to."

"I know what you are going to do, and I want to help." Virginia replied honestly, pushing Gallows towards Clive. "He's coming too, we'll need a priest, won't we?" Gallows looked between the two drifters, wondering what they were talking about and how it would involve himself. Oh, the sheets, they were going to go and recover the bodies left in the stables. Gallows hid a shiver, he was generally unnerved by dead corpses, especially if they had the faces of people familiar to him when they lived. Virginia was wrong, he _wasn't_ a priest, just a candidate for one, but he guessed that it would be heartless to not lend a hand, and Gallows had a big and warm heart. He'd help, even if he did not want to, no matter how freaked out he got.

Jet flicked his bandanna back over his shoulder as Virginia looked at him, reading the message her eyes sent with clarity. "I guess you want me to help too, huh?" How in the world was she able to manipulate him like this? It wasn't fair. He had never listened to anybody before, unless it involved money, why was he starting now? And by the Guardians, why with her?

Virginia patted him on the back appreciatively. "Atta boy! Let's go!" The way she said it, it sounded like they were going to go and explore a ruin instead of cleaning up a massacre. Virginia always made a horrible thing cheery, and Clive was incredibly thankful for it. He had left the doors wide open before, and nobody had taken it upon themselves to shut them again, so the stench of the atrocity was evident even outside the stables as well as inside. Involuntarily, his feet froze before he could go in again, it was even harder to face, now that he knew what lay within. "You can stay outside, if you want. We'll clean it up, you don't have to go in." Virginia said next to him, following his gaze into the building.

Clive shook his head from side to side, in disagreement to Virginia's offer. "I have to. This may sound familiar to you, but I must atone for my sins." He forced a light-hearted smile. "Besides," He continued, mentally sighing at the declaration, "The sight of blood does not affect me so intensely anymore."

The stables were still in shambles, just as it was left, and the stink of slowly decomposing bodies created a smell that pushed Clive to the edge of his frame of mind. The three of them, they were all good and decent people, their lives were tragically cut short. They shifted the bodies so they lay calmly as if immersed in a deep sleep, arms crossed near their chest to hide their stomach wounds and feet set together, though mutilated and broken. Clive and Gallows moved Dessinsey and Otto to the center of the room with difficulty, they were heavy to carry and lug about, and they had to be careful, because some limbs were only hanging to the body by thread-like tendons. Clive fetched Dessinsey's severed arm dangling from the hook on the wall, grimacing as it broke away like the arm was not entirely solid, it tore a chunk of flesh off, and Clive was loathe to touch it, so he didn't. He set the appendage near the gouged shoulder socket and drew Dessinsey's hat over his face, looking over his work. How detached he felt in such a sadistic scene, it felt like he was reading a book with himself as the main character. Even the dried blood was just another colour to him, it truly made him feel inhuman.

Virginia was attending to the sepulture of the two horses, tearfully casting her requiem Arcana that sent the beasts to the otherworld amidst a soft rain of ethereal feathers and light, saying a last good bye. The animals did not deserve this, they had not expected or understood it, but they still died. She wiped away tears and made a quick prayer for this to never happen again. Then she faced her friends, showing them that her work was done. Her face went from displaying sadness to anger in less than a second, glaring at the silver-haired android with extreme shock and ferocity. "Jet! What in the _world_ are you doing?!" She yelled.

Jet was kneeling over the corpse of Volks, going through his pockets for valuables. He knocked aside the glare of contempt with ease and removed the dead man's wallet, seeing if there was anything good inside. "What?" He said to Virginia in a matter-of-factly tone, "It's not like he's gonna need it or anything. 'Sides, he owes us for the wolf killing." Jet looked around the room, meeting the angry stares of his drifting companions. "Hey! We earnt it! The cash is ours!"

"Cold blooded," Gallows said, straightening his jacket, "Are you a grave robber now?"

"No!" Retorted Jet, shifting the wallet from hand to hand, "I just think-" Gallows glared at him. Virginia glared at him. Clive glared at him. Jet analyzed each glare and groaned loudly, grumpily shoving the wallet back into Volks's pocket. Jet was passing up money, it was a time to be remembered in the annals of history. "I hate you all so much." He growled, upset.

"I'm so proud of you." Said the female drifter warmly, reaching out and messing Jet's silver hair up. He pushed her away, but she was not perturbed. "You're actually growing a heart." She announced, pleased.

Clive draped the sheets he had collected over the three bodies after ritually closing their eyes for the last time. Now they were just white masses, nameless. He bowed his head with guilt, disarming himself and leaning on the butt of the Gungnir with both hands clasped over it's surface, letting Gallows take the floor of their little makeshift funeral. In all truth, it would be blasphemy for the murderer to say the last rites to their victims. Gallows pushed his white lock of hair behind his ear, stammering out an apology that he wasn't quite sure on what he should do. "It does not really matter _what_ you say," Clive informed him, "As long as it comes from the heart. Words are irrelevant." 

Gallows crossed his hands over his chest and bowed deeply, closing his eyes. He spoke, and it was not in English, it was the tongue of the Baskar, an extremely musical symphony of words, more like a low crooning song than simple speech. The three listened, and it was like they heard not the words at all, they saw pictures in their minds of peace and tranquility, solitude and gentle rest. The dark night, the bright day, hope and despair, loss and fulfillment. They were all intertwined in a framework of organized discord, complete and yet, so separate. Time did not pass, though an eternity flew by, and they were finally awakened by Gallows rubbing his neck bashfully and asking if he did alright.

"Whoa…" Was all Jet could say, "Whoa."

Clive straightened his glasses, but he too, was amazed beyond words. "That will… do nicely." He finally said. Clive didn't know what Gallows had chanted, but it had a very strong effect on him. He was shaking in his boots.

"Ginny?" Gallows looked worriedly at the girl. She blinked, muttering something about angels. "Geez, it's not _that_ impressive, is it?" The Baskar stepped down, indicating for Clive to take over. "Your turn." He announced.

The sniper turned to him, alarmed. "What? No, I don't have the right…" He stepped back, warding him away.

"Come on. You should at least say _something_." He pressed Clive, "Like you said, you gotta atone. So, do it now."

"That was not what I meant." Clive rebutted him, "But you are right." He chuckled nervously, "I cannot compare to the ritual our priest has performed, but at this time I am reminded of a poem I heard a long time ago in my youth-"

"A poem? Gimme a break." Jet moaned before having his foot trodden by Virginia. She nodded for him to continue.

Clive gave a shuddering sigh. "I do not deserve what I have been given, these friends I have, but at least they may be present for the departure of three souls with unjust dismissal. I am sorry. I deserve to follow them." He kneeled before the covered bodies and placed a hand over his heart. He was still cold, Clive barely felt alive. The sniper took a deep breath, and began.

_

"A gentle hand will help the dead  
To find the way to their last bed,  
He who engineers mortal's end,  
Shall tell you he is man's best friend."

_

"Amen." Gungnir felt heavy in his hand, he wondered idly if he would ever fight with it again. Not after this, not after the things he had done. Clive stood up and hoarsely whispered that he was finished, leaning himself face-first against the wall. A light shone behind him, Virginia cast the necrotic expulsion Arcana and Clive briefly wondered if it would also work on himself. He just felt… dead. It was like his body had expired and his mind was still controlling it. He sensed somebody standing behind him. "Is it done?" He asked, refusing to turn around.

"Yes," Answered Virginia, "It is. You are very brave, Clive."

He felt a cluster of hiccups building in his chest, and he could not keep them down for much longer. "No I'm not," He argued, "I'm a coward." He tore himself away from the wall and took the quickest route out of the stables, unable to look anywhere but at the ground.

The sniper waited patiently on the steps of the Horse Theft Inn for the others to follow him, a hand over his face. He was _so_ weak, how long has this gone unnoticed? Somehow, the others had remained strong and he had weakened. If it wasn't for the strength Virginia had leant him, he would have…

The barrel of his ARM reflected the light of the sun with ease. If he held the tip of the weapon under his neck and fired… His problems would be solved.

But he was not that far gone yet. Clive would reserve it as a last resort, he'd keep the option open, but he still had things to do on Filgaia that needed to be finished. He could die later.

After his work was done, he would make sure of it.


	19. Short Homecoming, Sad Departure

The fields near Claiborne seemed even emptier, now that the drifter team knew why it was so. Clive intentionally kept a few paces behind the others, looking sadly at his feet. It was a personal precaution, he didn't know what would happen if he let his guard down, and he honestly didn't want to find out. Clive adjusted his glasses and sighed, his life had suddenly taken a drastic turnaround in the last two days, it was hard for him to grasp. A week ago, he never would have believed he'd become one of the entities he had tried so hard to exterminate. Indeed, fate had a truly wicked sense of humour.

Clive entertained another sobering thought. The sniper was practically a nervous wreck, how could he go home to his family like this? Catherine, he would worry Catherine, and Kaitlyn… he didn't think he could face them right now. As a demon, maybe it would be better if he never saw them again. Clive was tempting fate just remaining with Virginia and the others, but he simply refused to roll the dice with his family's safety. He stopped walking, deeply considering heading in the opposite direction.

__

Daddy. You have to help me, you have to wake up and come home… Please…

No, Clive couldn't stay. He had to pick himself up from the ground and keep on walking, for Kaitlyn's sake, for everyone. "Keep your weapons loaded at all times near me, and stay an arm's length away." Clive cautioned the others wearily as he held the teleport orb out for them to touch. "I am unable to guarantee your safety in my company anymore." he focused upon the glittering jewel, the result a beautiful crimson glow enveloped the gem and sent pulsing arcs of harmless red electricity up his arm. The sensation always took a few moments to get used to, his arms was beginning to feel immaterial, because it was losing it's volume and mass. Jet, Virginia and Gallows set their hands on top of his, the teleportation magic dividing itself equally among the four companions.

"If that's what you want," Gallows replied, feeling the temperature of the orb increase as more power was generated. "But you know, we trust you." He added, nodding at Jet and Virginia.

"Don't trust me," Clive implored, reflecting on the two merchants lying as buzzard-fodder somewhere around the plains. He would have liked to give them a proper burial, but an inner force told him that time was of the essence and he had to leave as soon as possible. They had trusted him, Roykman and Travis, for the briefest of moments, and look where it got them. A needless and terrible demise. "Please don't try. It would be folly."

"Humphrey's Peak," Said Jet, ignoring everyone and directing the power of the teleport orb to a certain location. His machine gun was already loaded, Jet would defend himself from anyone if he had to, even Clive. He didn't particularly relish the idea, but Jet knew demons, they can be _very _unpredictable. "Take us there." He looked over at Virginia, she had her eyes shut in concentration and she didn't notice Jet's stare. The desire for transportation had to be a completely mutual one, and Jet briefly felt the grass underneath his shoes blur and shift to rocky stone. It got a little warmer, and when he opened his eyes, the barren wasteland of the East Highlands greeted him, arguably, the place where he was born. Leyline Observatory was not too far away.

The town they found themselves at the outskirts of was like a small oasis in the craggy arid wilderness, it comfortingly called out to them from it's locale, like a diamond in the rough. Actually, it _had_ been an oasis long ago, which was the chief reason why it was founded in that area, an underground spring flowing forth clean water from beneath the quicksand seas. Traversing this area of Filgaia would have been an impossibility without the support of the town, and although the amount of drifters heading over to travel the highland's length and breadth was dwindling, the town still remained as charming as ever.

Clive thought it felt good to be so close to home again, but he could not shake the discomfort from his mind that something was missing, something was _wrong_. Virginia surprised him slightly when she moved closer to him and hooked her arm with his, and even though he self-consciously tried to pull himself away from her, she held him fast and he didn't want to risk hurting her, he was still adapting to his newly-found strength. The girl lead him to his house, Clive dragged his feet and tried to prolong the venture, but he could not postpone this reunion at all. He wanted to see Catherine and Kaitlyn again, but he wished it would be under different circumstances.

It felt good to have the familiar cobblestones under his feet once more, and looking far ahead with his extra-sharp vision, he could see that the fountain was working, no longer a dried monolith, but sending a sparking stream of crystal-clear water up into the air, the foliage surrounding the fount greener and undoubtedly more beautiful. Humphrey's Peak was much more alive than he remembered it, verdure lacing the pavements and the simple small gardens belonging to Clive's neighbours. Gallows was humming another tune of catchy annoyance, the kind that sticks in your head and won't go away. He could also hear birds chirping in the trees, a beautiful melody that was not present before, the birds must have changed their migrant direction since the planet's regenerative process had begun.

Blue roof, he could see it straight ahead of him, home. Clive was going home. The memory figure in the town square recognised him and clicked happily in greeting, bouncing cutely in it's place. The sniper returned the sentiments by smiling and nodding a hello, offering the machine a small wave. He wasn't expecting a welcoming committee, but he got one anyway. How unexpected. What was the figure's name again? Oin, he thought it was. Clive made a mental note to pay more attention to Oin when he saw it next, the poor thing seemed attention-starved.

He waited with patience for the other two to catch up, forcing Virginia to stand still for a moment. Nobody had said a word since they had arrived here, nobody wanted to. What would they find, and what was so important and pressing to Clive that they had to come here on the double? Reading the look on the sniper's face, they could tell he was wondering the same question himself.

Hesitantly, Clive grasped the brass doorknob, intrigued that the cold piece of metal seemed to be actually warmer than himself. Virginia let go of his arm as Clive swallowed hard and gently turned the knob, pushing the door in. It made a slight creaking noise, that to Clive's mind, went on forever. His house felt abandoned and vacant, he stepped inside looking around the room for one of the members of his family. His hand went to the back of his head, straightening out his short green ponytail, the other one shoved self-consciously in his pocket. "Catherine, I'm… home." He stepped forward to allow room for the others to enter. Everything was so quiet, why was it so quiet?

Movement, somebody stood up from the leather couch, Clive hadn't noticed her because she had been sitting so still, head bowed low with long chestnut hair obscuring her face. Her hands were held in front of her body, she produced a quiet melancholy, Clive could sense it as easily as he breathed. She walked around the coffee table, laden with many books and sheets of yellowed paper, unending fragments of spidery text scribbled all over it's surface, marked with coffee rings and blotches of ink. She must have been sorting through them only a short while ago, because the musty scent Clive could detect was barely present in the air and around the room. They were his things, his old notes and books. She moved up close to him, scarcely a foot away, and she looked up at him, eyes clear and dry, but hardly containing her sadness. They both made an invisible connection, and Clive's heart fell to his feet. Something was terribly amiss. "Good gods, what is wrong?" He demanded softly, gently reaching out and touching her shoulder.

Catherine crumpled in his arms, grabbing the sniper for support and burying her face in his chest. Clive did not expect the sudden contact, but instinctively wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, stroking her light brown hair. Catherine was a little surprised at how cold her husband was, he didn't generate any body heat. But, he was here, he made things seem a little bit better. "Honey," She murmured, eyes open a slit and forcing tears not to emerge from them, "She's gone."

He crouched down slightly so that they were at the same height, tilting her chin up with one ice cold finger. "Who is gone? It is not…" Clive trailed off, refusing to believe what he was considering. He didn't want to be correct, he prayed to the Guardians that he was wrong. "Kaitlyn?" He finished, evaluating Catherine's reaction intensely, trying to find any indication that he was mistaken on his wife's face.

She banished a sob and removed one arm from around his back to search the pocket of her white apron, removing an opened white envelope made of a very high-quality material. She pressed the document in Clive's hands and journeyed back to the couch where she sat down heavily, motioning for the drifters standing behind Clive to join her. Jet found a good wall to lean against while Virginia sat next to Catherine and Gallows plonked himself on a chair nearby. "Read it." She said with simplicity, appearing calmer than how her heart felt. Virginia looked to the woman, she seemed to be barely holding her unshed tears back under a barrier of incredible willpower. Her grey eyes were steeled defensively, it looked admirable on Catherine in such a situation. She must be a very strong person.

Clive pulled out an expensive sheet of perfectly white pressed paper from the envelope, marked with a deep rich ink, jet black, written with an extraordinarily steady and skilled hand, a beautiful and flowing text cascading down the page. Tension built in the atmosphere as Clive read through it slowly, going over every word with deliberate patience. He lowered his hands and the letter, his fingers went limp and he almost dropped the piece of paper. It all made sense now, his dream. Clive's grip tightened ferociously on the letter, squeezing it severely into a mess of it's former self. He evenly met the eyes of everyone in the room, his gaze like a cold blue fire, even dimmed behind his glasses, it made the three drifters fearful of his intentions. "There is no profanity," He growled softly to the others, "I can immediately think of, suitable enough to utter against this, this atrocity…" He tossed the paper on the low coffee table, his hand was trembling with a suppressed demonic rage. Catherine nodded, holding a hand to her face to keep a sob from coming out. "How _dare_ they… I will not relent…" He moved over and took Catherine's hand, feeling her squeeze his in a sharing of emotion. "I… grah!" He meant to say something extra, but it had ended up in a low growl of frustration, unaware that he was beginning to act less human. Clive started to pace in a dangerous way, like a wild animal locked in a small barred cage, yearning for release.

Virginia picked up the letter herself, smoothing out the creases Clive had placed in it and tried to read it through, having slight difficulty because the handwriting was a little hard to decipher. "Dear Mr. Winslett," She read out loud so all could hear, "It is with great regret that I must inform you, though I bear no personal discontent on your remarkable evasion of the law myself, that certain recent transpirations in my livelihood force me to confer upon you a reminder of your position and status amongst the community. As you no doubt are aware of, a handsome reward has been placed upon your head and the heads of your companions, and I should like to assume that reward for myself, as a legitimate helping hand of the bounty-hunting network. I harbour no illusions of the reputation your team has accomplished to earn, and as a precaution to my own health, I have taken an indirect strategy to accomplish this task." She paused for a short while to see the reactions of everybody else.

"Sheez," Remarked Gallows, "'Sounds like that guy musta' read the dictionary, or something."

"There's more," Virginia added, looking back down on the paper. She did not like the sound of this message, not one bit. "You may have, by now, noticed that you are missing one member of your family. I assure you ardently that no harm has come to her, whether determined by a bodily or mental state. That condition, however, will undergo an extreme alteration depending on whichever course of action you and your team chooses to undertake. In three days, if you do not turn yourself in to the proper authorities or make any reply to this message, it is with a heavy heart that she will be returned to your care…" Virginia's voice faltered on the next sentence, going a little hoarse, "… In a plastic bag headed for the mortuary. For the sake of your daughter, Mr. Winslett, I hope you make the right decision and accept my generous offer, for I have no desire to see the child harmed in any way. You have three days, turn your team in, courtesy of my initial to the law, and a life will be saved. The rest is up to you. Signed," The female drifter squinted at the weird-looking hieroglyph, at least that was what it seemed to her, "A letter that kinda looks like an 'R'." 

Clive still paced, breathing heavily and appearing to Virginia, at least, like he was mimicking the behavioral patterns of a pissed-off wolf. "They will kill her," He growled, "No, I cannot let that happen." Clive didn't know what to do. The sentence for the so-called 'crime' they had committed was a public hanging, and knowing they were innocent, he couldn't hand himself and his friends over to a swift death, an unjust one. But if he reserved that, Kaitlyn would be dead. Dead, in three days. Why him? Why now, when he was just hitting the bedrock of his spiritual integrity? His luck must have _really_ been down, lately.

"I guess we turn ourselves in." Jet considered out loud, pushing himself up from his slouching position against the wall. "I'd rather not hafta fight myself out of a hanging house, but I'll do it, you know." The drifter would rather bust up a few ugly heads than see that little blonde girl in danger. He groaned inwardly, maybe Virginia was right, was he growing a heart? But, if it gave him an excuse to fight, then why not?

"You will do no such thing," Clive argued with influencing finality, "I won't allow it. I will not let you jeopardize your own safety on account of my family, and the reverse is also true. I will not let the people I care about become a scapegoat, if anything, save that position for me." He tapped himself on the chest for emphasis. Clive didn't care how hurt _he_ got, but he would not let anyone else suffer.

"You are forgetting one important fact, honey," Catherine interrupted Clive's rant quietly, putting her hand on one of Clive's many old notebooks and pushing it forward. "If you lose your calm in these situations, you will most definitely take the wrong course of action. Remember what Father always used to say? _Looking for a shortcut can lead you astray._ I know you are upset, I am too, but you must think clearly and objectively if you wish for any progress to be made." She opened the book and flipped through the pages, the drifter team could see many different variations of handwriting in the book, like it had belonged to a whole group of people, instead of just Clive by himself.

"Catherine," He said, shocked out of his anger for a few moments, "I had almost forgotten such advice. Thank you, you are right. I must… calm down." He exhaled deeply, trying to vent out his fury. Catherine held out the book she was holding, passing it to Clive and pointing to a particular page. The sniper looked at it, it was a short narrative about the thrills of the Gunner's Heaven, definitely not written by him, but this book was well over a decade old and anybody could have been the author. He had no idea why she was showing him this, but it had to make some kind of sense to her, though he knew not what it was. He gave up trying to figure it out after several different directions of thought, and decided to ask her himself. "I do not understand." He admitted.

"The handwriting, compare it to the written letter." She advised, taking the note from Virginia who held out her hand obligingly. Clive set the book down next to the note that she laid out and removed his glasses momentarily for a better look, forgetting that it made no difference to his sight. Gallows leaned into the congregating circle of people, wanting to see everything for himself. "See? They are remarkably similar. I have been checking through these notes for hours, and I had only recently found a match. I'm glad you came home in time, honey, I was beginning to get very worried."

"Who is the author of this narrative?" Clive asked his wife, but she could give no reply. She didn't know. But, he must have been aquatinted with the kidnapper some time ago, if this evidence proved to be correct, which he hoped it was. Over ten years ago, who had he known who could write with such a flourish? It was hard to remember, with the Yggdrasil accident, everybody's memories were fuzzy in that time. He had a weird sensation, but that might just be his feeling of cold foreboding that had settled around him all day, since he had woken up from his dream. "It must start with an 'R'… Catherine, do you recall…" Clive cut off his own sentence, a revelation flooding through his mind. To everyone else, it looked like Clive had just swallowed a fly by the unusual face he made.

Virginia whapped him on the back just in case he had. Clive barely registered the hit and slowly put his glasses back on, like a man who had suddenly seen pigs fly. The sniper picked up the wrinkled letter, holding it firmly in both hands. "I… think I… know." He whispered, stepping away from everybody else. "Oh my…" Virginia looked expectant of an explanation, so Clive tried his best to elaborate.

"Does the book tell you anything?" Catherine asked, gathering up the other books and notes, piling them neatly in the centre of the table. Gallows helped her along, having nothing else useful to do.

Clive almost laughed, looking at Catherine and then Virginia. In an unexpected movement, the sniper held the piece of paper up near his face, his eyes scarcely a few inches away from the letter. He closed them and concentrated in a similar way to aiming an ARM or generating an Arcana, trying to ignore the series of eyes focused upon him. "The book tells me nothing," He admitted whilst in the midst of concentration, "But the letter speaks otherwise."

"Here we go," Jet muttered quietly under his breath, "Spooky demon powers ahoy." Jet was feeling defensive, mostly because Clive was beginning to tick him off. The silver-haired boy had taken Clive's outbursts with patience, he knew things that shattering would be traumatic for everyone, but he had gone though the same during the fight against Beatrice, and he was alright with it, discovering he was the 'Sample', despite his wishes for it not to be. Being a demon was only slightly different, in Jet's perception, and he really thought that Clive was only being babyish about it. It probably wasn't that bad, maybe.

"I can hear you," Clive informed the boy, he was getting better at using his advanced hearing skill, "And if that is what you wish to call it, then do so. I do not care. The fact of the matter is…" He slammed the paper down on the coffee table and addressed the leader of the team firmly. "This paper smells like Ravendor!" Now that Clive was focused to the particulars of differentiating scent, he could catch a deep coating of cigarette smoke stuck to the immaculate message, combined with a sickly sweet odour of some kind of foreign perfume. The smell conjured up an image of the darkly handsome drifter, sitting by the roadside and smiling, so much like the devil himself.

Catherine dropped the books she was holding, as if the strength she possessed had suddenly faded away into non-existence. "Ravendor?!" She virtually yelled, "No, it can't be… You-you must be mistaken…" The woman moved to pick up the dropped books, her hands shaking. This was becoming too much for her, she was a naturally strong person, but one could only take so much until one reaches their limit. Catherine had almost reached hers. Ravendor was a name she had never wanted to hear again.

"I am not mistaken," Clive argued gently, their roles reversing and now it was Clive who tried to calm Catherine down. "I can recognize the scent, he has had his fingers all over this parchment, as far as I can tell." She didn't know he was a demon yet, and it really hadn't crossed his mind to explain it and why his senses had sharpened so. It would have helped him to convince her if he had. "What is the matter? Why are you so-"

She leant over and whispered something lengthy in his ear, Virginia strained to listen, but only heard the hushed murmuring of Catherine's voice. After a few moments, Clive's eyebrows knitted together and he jumped to his feet, startled. "You must surely be joking! I thought he was dea- … Oh, I see now." He started off incredulous, but ended up in bland realization, sighing. Clive raised his hands in a small defeat, a deepening feeling of depression consuming his anger and rendering it powerless. "I will be back in a few minutes. I think I need to change, or wash, or something." He stalked out of the room, shaking more particles of dust from his coat.

Hiding her face with her hands, Catherine let the completeness of the predicament sink into her mind, wanting to cry, but finding it simply impossible. She was far too upset to cry. Her little girl was out there in the dangerous wilderness with a band of scoundrels, and even worse, Ravendor was leading them. She must be scared half to death. A small hiccup escaped her throat, but was accompanied by nothing else. Virginia hugged her consolingly, telling the poor woman that it would all be alright, even though she didn't know what to do herself. The only consolation Catherine had, was that she could be absolutely positive that Ravendor would keep his word about not harming Kaitlyn until the third day, the man lied often, but this was one thing he would not tell an untruth about.

"This world is full of scum," Gallows stated vehemently, pounding a fist in his other hand, "But something like this… agh! I'm really, _really_ sorry. This is all our fault. They want us, not little Kaitlyn…" The Baskar felt awful, being showered by constant fire was a thing he had gotten used to, but this was a new type of villain that knew how to hurt people, _much_ worse. A long while passed, though it was probably only ten minutes at the max, it could have spanned an eternity from what the inhabitants of the living room guessed. Something needed to be said, but nobody knew what to say.

"Don't blame yourself," Catherine said through her misery, breaking the long silence, "It is nobody's fault, only the fault of the perpetrator. This is like a…a…"

"It feels like a ghost has risen, doesn't it?" Said Clive, returning wearing an unsoiled set of clothing, except for his old coat, which was still stained with blood. He had reloaded his ARM with the best quality ammo he could find in his drawers, and had reset the scope as effectively as he could. "A ghost I wanted to keep buried, but it seems that the wool has been pulled over both our eyes, if I had known, It's all my fault…"

Catherine raised a fine eyebrow. "What did I just say? It is _nobody's_ fault. Then, and now." To the other drifters, they were having difficulty keeping up with the conversation, it was taking on a different meaning that they had no clue about. "I'm tired of you feeling guilty over it."

Clive looked self-consciously at Virginia and Co., shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'm sorry," He apologised to his leader, "But may we continue this conversation with privacy?" He asked, gently putting an arm around his wife.

Virginia nodded and leapt to her feet, indicating for the others to imitate her. "Sure, we'll just be waiting outside."

"No, no." Clive objected, "You are the guests, we will only take a moment, we'll go outside. Please, sit down and relax." He walked with Catherine out the door, not giving Virginia any time to argue. What the sniper found outside filled him with both hope and despair, he knew his daughter inside and out and he sensed precisely which direction she had gone, but in realizing so, he knew that she was far away from here. The sense of smell is truly a remarkable ability, if used correctly. Clive knew what he had to do, and he had to do it quickly, if he was ever going to catch up.

"I will _not_ let her die," He announced to Catherine doggedly, "I have to go… and I don't want anybody following me."

She was confused. "Why do you not want the other's help? Is there something I should know?"

"Catherine, listen to me." Clive ordered solemnly, shrugging off the large ARM strapped to his back. He held it by the barrel with a free hand, leaning it on the pavement. "I will find her, I can track her down. Trust me, you might have noticed this already, but I am not myself. I believe I know where she may be." He glanced back at the house where the three other people were inside. "The next time you see me, be prepared to acknowledge the inevitable without reservation. I know you are strong enough to do so. The others will protect you, and if you inquire, they can explain it better than I can." Clive pressed the barrel of the Gungnir into Catherine's hand, releasing his spirit's influence over the weapon. "They may need the reawakening of the Aegis, the defending shield. I am loathe to ask for this, but-"

"Clive you are rambling." Catherine corrected, accepting the gun and reaching her hand up to cup his cheek softly, ignoring how cold he felt. His chin was a lot smoother, he must have shaved a little while ago. He laid his hand over hers, she was so warm, and drew it off, lacing his fingers with hers. Catherine clicked the metal capping of the rifle on the pavement, continuing. "Remember these three things, no matter what. One, I love you. Two, your friends love you. Three, these two facts will never be in question. I will do what I can, you must go and find our daughter." She let go of his hand, standing on the tips of her toes and pulling him closer for a kiss, a goodbye kiss. Clive thought, dismally, that it might be his last one. He was having trouble seeing himself in the future anymore, it was like Filgaia was already beginning to reject him.

Clive turned and walked away, keeping in his memory Kaitlyn's familiar scent. It was old and barely there, many hours must have passed since she had been here last. The wind was low, which was a huge help, it would not blow the trail away. Clive paused abruptly, looking back at his wife standing near his house, holding the rifle ARM and waving. "I think I understand why I married you!" He called out from a distance.

"Why?!" Came the reply, Catherine amplifying her voice by holding her hands around her mouth, leaning the gun against her side.

"Because I would walk around in circles forever without your direction! I promise I will bring her home!" To himself he added, _Whether I am a monster or not…_ Clive started to run away from the house, from his love, and his friends. A sense of urgency instilled itself in his heart. Ravendor… It had been years since he last heard that name. He should have recognised him instantly the other day, blast his fuzzy memory! Of course, he looked much older, but he really should have known. Well, how could he? Clive thought he was dead.

He paused at a lamp post, sniffing the air. The villain had reclined on this post some time ago, and Kaitlyn's scent had mingled with the cigarette smoke. Clive confirmed it, the ebony-haired man had kidnapped his daughter. Another bout of demonic rage built up inside him as Clive grabbed the post to steady himself, suppressing the urge to roar out an obscenity. They had left Humphrey's Peak, taking her into the wastelands.

__

Damn you, Ravendor! You snake, leave my family out of this!

There was an invisible trail that only Clive could follow, the trail of scent, and although it made Clive feel more animal than human, it was the only lead he had to their location, aside from a slight inkling, and he had to take it. Now, he was alone, he had left his team-mates behind. This was more important than what he was concerned with before, Kaitlyn meant the world to him. To Hell with the demon race, he was willing to stay one forever if it would only bring her back. He felt regretful for Virginia, what she would do was entirely up to herself now, Clive knew she would make the right choice. Catherine would take care of them.

Clive had three days to find Kaitlyn, before she was to be executed. But what he did not know, was that his own time was running out. His clock was ticking, sands running through the hourglass. He was almost upon a point where he could not turn back.

xxx

"How could people stoop so low?" Virginia asked the rest of her entourage, mainly Jet, in an empathetic anger. "She is only a little girl. And I thought the thugs we had met before were bad… Jet? Didn't you say you knew Ravendor?" Virginia pried again into Jet's short past. The boy made a non-committal grunt, confirming her inquiry.

"Kinda," He muttered, shrugging airily, "I already said this, we partnered for about a year or so. 'Real artsy-fartsy bloke, he pats you on the back with one hand and stabs you quickly with the other. He was…" Jet searched for a good summary of his character, "Politely ruthless." Jet could almost credit his former personality, the cold-hearted one, to the dark-haired drifter, something of his character had unintentionally stuck with him, Jet was just glad it wasn't the annoyingly formal accent. Having one person in the group with it was bad enough, for him. 

"You think he'll make good on his word?" Gallows questioned anxiously, if there was one thing he hated to see, it was a girl in distress, especially the daughter of a friend. He knew what it was like to take care of a younger soul, the threat of losing them could chill the blood. Guardians knew he did, when Shane almost killed himself on the sacrificial altar.

"Undoubtedly." Said two voices at exactly the same time. Jet's eyes went to the door, wondering who had interrupted him, where Catherine stood sadly in the doorframe. She looked back at him, walking into the house. "Something is wrong with my husband," She stated, remarkably composed. "And I was informed I might get an explanation here. Please, start explaining." Catherine laid the Gungnir next to the door, standing firmly and crossing her arms.

"It's a loooong story." Gallows warned, stretching his arms out to accentuate the statement. "You sure you want to know?" Catherine's grey eyes became steel, and she appeared to be as resilient as a block of ice.

"I do believe," She replied curtly, "That I deserve an answer."


	20. The Raven's Truth

"Train, train, take me away!" Dario was a little bit dumbfounded. Kaitlyn was up and about quite happily, ignoring her bound hands and seeming not to care that she had been kidnapped by a troupe of criminal outlaws. She was even singing. "Take me away, far away!" She was leaning out the window and watching the wastelands fly by with fascination, blue ribbons whipped around by the speed of the train. For a second, her eyes flicked to their occupied cabin, looking at the one sleeping and one awake drifter. The sleeping man was scary, though he didn't appear too frightening outwardly. Kaitlyn concluded that it must still be his naptime and left him alone. "To the future, we will go!" Dario had let her run around the room, although she wasn't allowed to leave the cabin. Having only recently woken up, Kaitlyn was in an energetic phase of restlessness, she could not stay in one place for too long. "Where it leads, no-one knows!" 

"Hopefully, we will have some idea." Ravendor said to Kaitlyn, surprising her. He looked to be still asleep because his eyes were shut. However, he spoke as someone wide awake and got up, stretching like a cat. The leader rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, momentarily checking to see if his ARM was still in it's holster. It was a very antique weapon, given to him by his father, the famed Duke Begucci. But compared to the pompous, all-talk-and-no-substance noble, Ravendor had both modest confidence of his own abilities and quite a lot of substance to back it up. Blood can wash clean from a man's hands, and Ravendor had accumulated enough of a stained reputation to fill the seas of sand. He smiled at Kaitlyn benignly, mercurial eyes showing unusual affection. "You are quite the songbird, little one."

Kaitlyn put her back to the window, fumbling with the rope around her wrists. She had a question she wanted to ask, and although her parents had encouraged her to ask questions about things she was unsure of, she felt reluctant to pry anything from out of the tall dark man. Curiosity can only be held back for a short time, however, and her mouth opened despite her desire not to. "Mister… why did you kid-nap me?" She asked, stumbling through the syllables of the word 'kidnap'.

Ravendor cricked the kinks out of his back slowly, stretching his arms out. He then took a few steps toward Kaitlyn, kneeling down and placing a hand on her small shoulder. "What is your name, child?" He questioned with a hidden intent. All he seemed to be full of was benevolence for the girl, but was that his true feelings?

"Kaitlyn." She replied obediently, shying away from Ravendor's touch. "Spelt with a 'K', not a 'C'." The man noticed her apprehension of him and removed his hand, laying it over his knee, nodding, as if her answer made perfect sense to him. He shot a glance at Dario, asking a silent question about Romero, to which the bandit shook his head, he had not returned yet.

"Little Kaitlyn," He purred, slightly tilting his head to one side, placidly smirking, "Do you know who I am?" Ravendor felt like lighting up another cigarette, absently touching the packet tucked away in his jacket, but he would do no such thing in a small cabin with a child inside, he didn't mind the damaging smoke, but he surely didn't want to harm the girl, in spite of the letter he had written to Clive. He was not so low as to injure a child prematurely to his plans.

She shook her head. "No. Are you my kid-napper?" Kaitlyn rubbed her chin in thought, a bad habit she had picked up from somewhere, she did it every time she was forced to think hard. Ravendor was unrecognisable, she had never seen him before in her entire life.

The dark-haired man chuckled silently, at the same time feeling deeply saddened by her reply. Of course, he had expected something like this, knowing Clive as well as he did, the sniper would have most likely swept his memories of him under the carpet, as was his usual wont when dealing with the past. With the greatest of care, he picked up Kaitlyn and deposited her on the long bench he had been sitting on, on his knees in front of her so they were at the same height, looking each other in the face.

__

She has grey eyes…My gods, it is like looking into the past…

"Well, yes and no," Ravendor answered after a few moments, one hand leaning on the bench next to the girl. "Do not be afraid, none of us shall harm you in the least, so you cannot really call us kidnappers. Think of us more as… as…" The man tried to think of a non-offensive word, tapping his fingers on the wooden seat, making a hollow sound.

Dario threw a word at him. "Babysitters?" He guessed, gripping the rim of his hat.

Ravendor clapped his hands in creepy delight, redirecting his smile to Dario. "Yes! A perfect example! For the next few days, we shall baby-sit you, little one." His smile faded and became more sombre, closing his eyes as if about to bring up an abhorrent subject. Again he patted her on the shoulder, more of a comfort for himself than to the girl. His hands went down to her wrists, undoing the tight knot binding her arms together. Kaitlyn looked at her untied hands with surprise, kidnappers do not suddenly free their hostages, do they?

"Why am I here?" She inquired with utmost innocence, wide eyes able to melt the hardest hearts in Filgaia. She put her hands in her lap, looking at the slight red band around her wrists, an unavoidable rope burn. It stung a teensy bit, but she ignored it bravely.

"Ah, this is a hard thing for me to say, and you may not believe it," Ravendor warned, scratching his cheek inattentively, "Are you sure you wish to know?" Dario had his hat pulled over his face, taking his own turn at a nap, now that Ravendor was awake to watch the girl. Kaitlyn glimpsed the bearded man in a light doze, and redirected herself back to the man sitting in front of her. She rubbed one wrist and nodded, inquisitive to a fault.

"My name is Ravendor Begucci. I am your uncle." 

xxx

The sun burnt itself into his pale skin, and no matter how hot the surrounding environment was, he repelled it and still managed to catch a small touch of heatstroke. One foot after the other, he steadily followed a winding path around sizeable rocks and veritable quarries, wishing that he could simply summon Hasufel and ride the miles away. The trail went slightly south in a westerly direction, untouched or tainted by neither monster nor man. The air was a little dusty and it encouraged him to sneeze a few times, he felt sickened without illness. It was nowhere near as bad as yesterday, but he still had a headache and residue from the phantom sword stroke he had inflicted upon himself. Yes, the dream, a few more things had recently come back to his recollection.

__

She… she addressed me as another entity. What was it?

…Boomerang…

Boomerang…

…Is that my name?

Clive shook his head. Was it possible to be someone else? He had many questions to ask, and nobody to answer him. Jet had a small boomerang he threw around at times, it never bothered him, in fact, Clive felt he had no connection to that tool whatsoever. So why was he suddenly so unsure about his own name? There was someone else inside his body, his mind, and he was trying his best to confuse him.

The tip of his boot caught under a flat rock and Clive almost tripped himself over, pin wheeling his arms frantically and tottering forward, balancing out just in time before he lost his footing. His boots felt like they were lined with lead, alongside his entire body. Something seemed familiar about that, he had learnt a long time ago from an acquaintance…

__

"If you are living flesh, then we are living metal…"

The sniper held his hand out in front of his face, he didn't feel like metal, he could still see the bluish undertones of his circulatory system under the skin and tissue, if he could call it tissue. Didn't demons have black blood? Shouldn't he check, just in case?

Without knowing what he was doing, Clive suddenly found himself gripping a miniature switchblade, one of the oldest tools he owned, with the steel edge hovering only an inch over the skin hiding his radial artery, a twitch away from slitting his own wrist. The knife was a little dull and tinged with rust, but it could certainly still do the job. He didn't know what had come over him, Clive immediately retracted the blade, no emotion showing up on his face. He rethought his plan and pulled out the knife again, taking a second to check to see if it was clean where it counted, and pricked his index finger lightly, punching a minute hole in a high-pressure vein concealed within. Clive squeezed the finger, forcing a drop of blood out and dreading the results. Would it be red, or black?

A tiny drop of liquid rolled down his finger and onto the palm of his hand, making a small sad puddle. Not even his eyes could deceive him, the blood was black and slick, like oil. He dipped his other finger in the blood, drawing a smudge across his hand. Oil, the maintenance fluid of machines. Clive felt dirty, kicking a round pebble away and down a rocky slope. He wanted to go home, back to Catherine and Virginia and everybody else, so he would not have to be alone anymore. Clive had always hated being alone. All his life, he had tried to travel in a group, flitting from group to group, maintaining loyalties and doing things he would never consider doing in his current life, but he had _never_ been alone. This, it was a new and frightening experience for him, he was having trouble handling it. Could he do this, all by himself?

__

I must. Kaitlyn, I** will** find you!

He detected the smell of noxious fumes before he even discovered he was under attack, adrenaline in his system kick-starting his reflexes, hearing the whip snapping crack in the air prior to the sharp, stinging blow dealt across the back of his head. It knocked him down not with brute force, but with simple value of surprise. Clive hit the dirt and flattened himself out on the ground instinctively, lowering his chances of being hit again. A cloud of thick purplish gases hung lazily above and around the area, trying to choke the sniper to death. Clive pressed his hand against his mouth and nose, trying with futility to block out the poison settling itself into every pore, a wave of nausea sweeping over his body. He rolled over to meet his assailant, coughing and spluttering from the gas.

It was like a pulsing bag of green ooze, floating silently a few feet above the ground, a ring of slimy tentacles ringed around the top of the creature and looking to be a mixture of plant and fungus. A tube extended from the base, where the gases emanated from, dripping a disgusting acid upon the parched ground. Clive was familiar with these monsters, a beast called the moss fungus, but he had never seen one so big before, or in an environment where it would remain solitary and unable to seek aid from it's fellow monsters. It was alone, but it was _huge_, four or five feet in diameter, he roughly guessed. It floated towards where he lay, waving it's tentacles wildly in a declaration of war.

"N-no… I do not… have time for this…" Clive gasped, choking on the foul air. A burning sensation spread down his body, the beginning of a poison condition manifesting itself inside of him. As the population of monsters had dwindled over the regeneration of Filgaia, some breeds of monster had grown over the extinct animals habitats and consumed the resources, getting stronger at the expense of others. This also seemed to be the case in the East Highlands, for Clive had never known a moss fungus to grow so strong naturally. Without a doubt, Filgaia was only beginning to re-establish her equilibrium. The tactic for destroying a monster of this structure was a very simple one, it was merely a levitating bag of poison and disease, all he had to do was puncture it with something, and a bullet would do nicely. 

But his hands were empty, he was unarmed. Clive had left Gungnir with Catherine, and now had no weapon at all to defend himself. Another tentacle lashed out at his face, but Clive threw up an arm to shield himself, the whip-like appendage wrapping around his forearm and retracting sharply, yanking the sniper along with it. He pressed his heels into the ground to keep his place, the fight becoming a battle of strengths. The poison spread down his body and weakened his resistance, like an acid eating away his internal organs. Clive clenched his teeth as he dragged himself a step back, the moss fungus yielding a small amount in their game of tug-o-war.

"…Damn you… I have to leave…here… Let go…" Furtively, he used his free hand to check the pockets of his coat, searching for an antidote, or anything he could use against the monster. His already icy blood went even colder as he realized his inventory lay in the same place as his rifle, at his home in Humphrey's Peak. He had acted far too brashly, incredibly unlike himself, and now he would pay dearly for it, possibly with his own life.

The poison-coated tentacles began to seep more toxins through the sleeve of his coat, the burning sensation diffusing into his bloodstream. His pockets were deep, and at the last moment when he thought giving up would be the best thing for the entire planet, the small handle of his switchblade pressed itself into his palm, small but _sharp_. Clive thought up a plan in two seconds, relenting to the floating fungus and letting the creature draw him closer to the putrid sack of it's body. Immediately, he pulled the small knife out of his coat, pressing a tiny button on the handle, the long pointed blade popping out of it's base.

An arm's reach away, Clive plunged the meagre dagger into the fungus, tearing the creature wide open. The effect was similar to cutting open a wet paper bag filled with slime, the monster leaked a gooey green ooze all over the ground, a mixture of blood, pus and internal organs. The smell was ungodly, and Clive wrenched the tentacle off his arm and tried to rub the burning away, knowing it would not work.

Clive keeled over, succumbing to the poison that worked upon his half-changed system and becoming all the more potent. He would be able to take this infliction any other occasion, except today. He was halfway between both Humphrey's Peak and East Highland Station, he could go one way, or the other. But, could he make it to either without the toxin wasting him away? Clive pressed a hand to his chest, a tiny trail of purplish ichor coursing down the corner of his mouth, the poison was beginning to take a serious effect, he was getting dizzy…

__

It feels like I am being eaten alive… Stop it… Stop it, please…

Warmth, it swelled up in the fist pressed against his heart, startling the sniper because he had only just gotten used to being so cold. It was a warming sensation without any actual heat being produced, absorbing itself into his chest. All of a sudden, the burning faded away, dispelled by some sort of a cure, a regenerative ability. Clive looked down at his clenched fist, a white aura surrounding it. He was _healing_ himself.

Spitting out the poison trapped in the back of his throat, Clive rose, wiping his mouth. He would have preferred the use of an antidote, had he been given the choice, but this was as good enough as any for him. "Interesting…" He spluttered, fixing up the position of his glasses, "So I am… capable of purging impurities in my body without the aid of… an antitoxin." A useful technique, but one he sincerely did not want. Clive breathed in the clearer air, glad that the gas cloud had dissipated.

A bubbling gurgle mixed with pitiful mewling made Clive turn around to the twitching monster half-deflated in the dust. Like incredibly flexible fingers, the tentacles of the fungus inched across the earth, dragging the body as far away from Clive as possible, the handle of the switchblade embedded in it's torso. By the sounds it made, it was in a mindless agony and fear, bleeding slime and creating an oozing path as it slowly escaped, tarnishing the earth. Clive dropped his hand, feeling terribly responsible.

__

Whoever or whatever I come in contact with… all I do is cause them pain. Everyone…

The creature shrieked in fright as Clive set his foot against it's bulbous body gently, holding it down as he withdrew the knife. The sniper had only been defending himself, but the creature still had no right to suffer needlessly. It would be best to end it's suffering, now, while it had no defenses or chances to fight back. To be a monster, Clive knew what it was all about. He wished somebody would end his _own_ torture, but the only one who could do that was himself.

"And that is why, Kaitlyn," He finished out loud, "I have to save you. I cannot die until you are safe… And I want you to be safe, so I can finally..." Clive mumbled away the end of his sentence, not really wanting to think about his own intentions. Best to do that later.

It's shriek was cut off as a heavy foot squashed all the weight of the metal demon onto the creature, forcing it to be silent. A pulpy mass stuck to the sole of his boot, which he scuffed off on the flat rock that had previously tried to trip him over. He retracted his switchblade and hid it back in his pocket, looking in dismay at the large hill that he would have to climb before he could reach the station. Ravendor's trail went straight up the mount, and so Clive followed it steadfastly, carefully noticing the faint footprints of a band of travelers slowly being blown away by the wind and the time. Three sets of prints, all made by middle-aged men several hours ago. Clive was momentarily confused, why was there no little girl prints? They must have been carrying her, as he could still sense her following this trail. He rubbed the back of his head, where the fungus had managed to hit him with psychological fatigue, he was still too far behind.

He started to run, disregarding the scent trail, because he already knew exactly where the destination would lie. Walking so slow was killing his precious time, making every minute seem even more urgent. He had to get to her soon, before it became dark.

Before the moon would come out.


	21. Reflections

Catherine heated the water to make tea. She needed something to calm herself down and thought it would be hospitable to everybody else. Some tea bags were in the cupboard, she opened the door, procuring them and dropping the ingredient into four white cups. Adding sugar, she waited for the kettle to sing, Virginia at her heels. It was such a different experience to work in the kitchen without Kaitlyn a stone's throw away, there were other people in the house, friends, but it seemed so much lonelier than before. The thought made her brush a tiny tear away with shame, she should not be the one to cry. She had to stay strong.

"Catherine," Virginia asked tactfully, finding a tray to put the cups on, "Who is Ravendor? I met him briefly the other day, but I don't know how he could have been the kidnapper. He was very polite. Maybe Clive could have been wrong."

"Deception is Ravendor's forte, I could never really tell _what _he was thinking half the time. But, I trust Clive's judgement absolutely, I have no reason to doubt him." There was some clean utensils lying near the sink, Catherine gathered them up in her hands and placed them neatly in a drawer, sliding it shut afterwards. She routinely wiped her hands on her apron and took the boiling kettle from it's place, preparing the tea. "Who Ravendor is… I'll be more than happy to explain, it will be a great relief, believe me. In return, I want to know in detail what is wrong with my husband, he doesn't seem like himself." Catherine mentally reiterated her statement. _He doesn't seem… human…_

A meow, Virginia knelt down to pat the small white cat rubbing itself against her leg, purring. It had a name, Kaitlyn had told it to her a little while ago. The cat was a tom, and that was it's name. Tom the tomcat. She picked up the feline and stroked his fur distractedly, it was rare to find a pure white animal on Filgaia. "Do you need any help?" She inquired before realising something of importance. "Hey, where did Clive go?" She looked around as if she expected him to jump out at her from a secret hiding place. Tom pawed at her dress as if he was trying to communicate somehow, increasing the depth of his purrs.

"I… I let him go." Catherine explained, not looking up from what she was doing. She stirred the beverages carefully and set the streaming cups on the tray, holding it with both hands. "I could not have forced him to stay, even if I wanted to. He can be very stubborn sometimes."

Virginia nearly dropped the cat, the poor creature digging it's claws into the sleeves of her dress just to hang on. "You did what? Where did he go? What-" So, Clive had managed to sneak away though he had promised to stay. To find Kaitlyn was no doubt his intent, but could he be trusted to keep himself under control during that while? Catherine was unaware of the change that had come over Clive, but it would have been best if he had remained in their custody. Mindful of the cat she held, Virginia released it gently on the floor, the creature padding into the living room, tail held high.

"He has his own task to complete now, please leave him be. I honestly believe he is the only one who can truly confront Ravendor for who he really is. I'm sorry if it is a hindrance, but I will not let you go after him." Catherine narrowed her eyes, "I made a promise that I intend to keep."

"I understand," Virginia responded, hands falling to her sides, "But Clive really shouldn't be left alone. From what we have gathered, he is a general danger to anyone he comes in contact with."

"The tea is ready," Catherine said, steam rising from the china cups. "Come into the living room before it becomes cold." She lifted the tray a little bit and wandered back into the main room of the house, where the other drifters awaited their arrival. Virginia mentally sighed, it would be hard enough to explain to Catherine exactly what was wrong, and as the leader, it was her duty to do it.

"Ooh, what's that lovely smell?" Gallows asked goofily as the two girls re-entered, leaning forward to sniff the air.

"Herbal tea," Catherine replied, setting the tray on the table, away from the pile of books and notes. "It is very effective at calming a person's nerves, I thought I should prepare some." She took her original seat on the couch and obtained a cup, feeling the heat of the liquid warm her hands. "If you want, I shall begin first. The history of Ravendor, myself, and Clive…"

A clock chimed the time of day. High noon. The time had sure flown by as the sun reached it's highest point in the blue ocean of air. The congregation of people in the house all briefly turned their attention to the clock, letting it ring without interruption. Only two-and-a-half days were left before it would be too late for Kaitlyn, for her sake, they hoped Clive knew what he was doing, searching for her without any help from his friends.

"I am a migratory bird at roost." Catherine confessed to all who was listening to her. "I lost my wings as I fell from the wasteland sky, and I never found the inclination to recover them again." She looked reflectively into her warm cup of tea, thinking back a long time ago. Whimsically, she changed the subject so that she might continue with her story. "Did Clive ever mention to you anything of his past in Little Twister, concerning a gang?"

"…'Can't say he ever did." Thought Gallows, settled down into his armchair. Jet shrugged, unable to answer and seeming like he wanted to get rid of the fragile teacup somebody had handed him.

"Well…" Virginia mused, thinking as hard as her brain would allow, "He said something about that yesterday. He mentioned a… coterie?" Now that she thought about it, Clive had never really talked openly about his distant past at all. Had he been hiding something?

"Years ago," Catherine explained, "Clive was a very different man to the one you might know today. Of course, he grew up in Little Twister, so you cannot be too surprised, but he used to be a particularly prominent larrikin, good-natured, I assure you, for as far back as I have known him." She set her cup on the coffee table, awaiting an interruption that did not come. They were listening attentively. "This does not have much bearing to my story, unless you take into consideration that he was thrown into prison too many times to count, whereupon myself, my father, or another person would come and bail him out."

"Another person?" Virginia asked. The way Catherine said it, it seemed that his method of bail was unorthodox and maybe even illegitimate. Yet, in Little Twister, she supposed stuff like that could not be helped. It was well known that the legal system there was as rickety as a matchstick fence. The sheriff turned a blind eye to the horrible things around him and simply plastered false conceptions on the true meaning of his work. Virginia could honestly say that it peeved her off to no end, perhaps if he did his duty correctly, then the town would be a slightly better place to live in.

She nodded. "A young boy by the name of Ravendor. He was a runaway child, separated from his family by personal choice. A common occurrence, in those days, just about every girl and boy in Little Twister was either orphaned or a runaway, excluding myself, I still had my father, who brought me to live the summers in that place while he investigated the ruins there. Clive and Ravendor were very close, almost like blood brothers, they virtually grew up together. However, about seventeen years ago, there was a series of rather severe incidents and their friendship suffered dramatically. It was a death, a very painful death."

"He killed someone?" Jet drank away his tea in the only method he could think of to get rid of it. He couldn't lie, it did taste good, and gave him a feeling of warmth in his stomach that spread through his body. What was in this stuff? It sure gave him a lot of energy. "Wait, which one? Clive or Ravendor?"

"Oh, no!" Catherine protested, surprised that Jet had misunderstood her explanation, "They did not kill anyone, well, no-one concerning my story, anyway. But, that is not what is important, you see, they had several fights over a girl, and that girl was me. I guess… a fraction of the blame should be placed over my head. You must have heard the stereotypical story of the two boys and only one girl before, am I right?"

"I used to read about them all the time when I was younger." Virginia replied, a long-time fan of the romance genre. "So, it was rivalry and jealousy? And Clive won your favour against his best friend? I see."

"It was not really favour, we were merely fooling around in our youth, but I had previously been involved with Ravendor romantically, and because I had lost interest in him, Ravendor set the blame squarely on Clive's shoulders." Catherine was beginning to blush, this was an exceptionally personal subject for her, and she had not reflected on it for so long, in her memories, it was like she was reliving them all over again. "For the next few years, they remained uneasy rivals, but I could deeply see Ravendor's contempt for my husband, Clive was quite oblivious to it. How naïve he was…"

"Geergh… Mushy bullshit…" Jet said with distaste, softly nudging away the white cat that had decided to rub relentlessly against his leg. It came back after a few seconds, and Jet repeated the motion, albeit a little more forceful this time.

"I will skip forward a few years, it will save some time. Clive became a drifter in order to assist my father with his studies, but in all truth, they really were not that good at it. They never would have made it past their beginning phase had it not been for sheer perseverance, and a good bodyguard. They were reckless to a fault, I suppose." The smile Catherine gave was a distant and wistful one, thinking back to memories that were her very fondest. "We travelled from ruin to ruin, this was before the Yggdrasil accident I have been informed about, researching the Guardians and their powers, it was just the three of us."

"What, you, Clive and the bodyguard?" Gallows questioned. How flimsy had Clive been in the past in order to need his own bodyguard? Pfft, Gallows was sure he was not _that_ weak. 

Catherine gave a bemused smile, slowly shaking her head. "No, no. Me, Clive and my father. _I _was the bodyguard. They called me Aegis, the defending shield. I was their barrier, their protection. As I have said before, in years past, I was also a drifter of much acclaim. Look through the newspapers of about twelve years ago and you may just come across my face a couple of times." Sifting through the mound of books and notes, she pulled out an aging pile of old papers, a Little Twister newspaper with the ink just beginning to fade away. Flipping through the pages with dainty grace so she would not tear them, Catherine placed her finger on a certain article and tapped the page. "Look here."

Again, Virginia read aloud the words for all to hear. "Recent advances in archaeological discovery around the Lunatic Garden excavation site can be entirely accredited to the drifting trinity, Berlitz and Catherine (Aegis) Erdesparen, a father and daughter team hailing from the Eastern Highlands, and our very own Clive Winslett, header of the felonious 'Black Shuck Gang'." She paused to re-read the sentence, having trouble accepting the information. It did not entirely seem real to her, Catherine was a legendary drifter and Clive once led a criminal gang? Mysterious.

"Yes…" Gallows drawled in his thoughts. "Aegis, Aegis… Yes, I think I've heard about her before, the 'Thirty Man Fortification'." His eyes widened as the truth manifested inside of him. "Hey, that was you?! I mean, I had a kinda different picture in mind when I read about you, no offence." The article also had a picture suspended above it, so the Baskar appraised the image thoroughly. The three people looked much younger then, except for the old professor who appeared to be smiling meekly at the photographer as the picture was taken, trying to ignore the other two youngsters behind him. Gallows recognized the place where the photo had been taken, the chamber that housed the chock in Lunatic Garden, one of the eternal reminders of the sin that marked mankind. The priest snorted with amusement as he made out the other figures in the picture. Clive was hanging off one of the rings of the chock with one hand, several feet from the ground and blowing a raspberry, a much younger and more energetic version of the sniper, whilst Catherine, garbed in proper drifter clothing, seemed to be yelling at him, hands on her hips.

"Well, I have settled down a lot since that time." She replied, smiling. "But it is nice to know that I can still be remembered for who I used to be, before the two incidents that changed our lives, both my husband's and myself." Catherine folded the newspaper with care, placing it back in it's nook under all the old notebooks. "The first incident you are already aware of, it was the date of death for my father, the one time Clive was unable to assist him. It scarred him deeply, and although you have managed to heal him of that ugly wound, it was merely overlapping a much worse one, hidden in the recesses of his memory."

"You two must have lived very difficult lives." Virginia said with feeling. So, even before the Yggdrasil accident, there was still much hardship to be had. And that was the reason for the project in the first place, to relieve that suffering. But people had still endured. The prophets in their ivory towers did not count on that simple truism.

"My career was cut short at it's peak," Catherine sighed, "Eleven years ago, I almost died in an accident during the excavation of a ruin to the far south of this town, yes, it nearly cost me my life. Clive and I thought it took Ravendor's life as well, until today, I believed those ruins to be his final resting place. My father was unable to help us on this venture, and if he did, who knows how my story would have ended? But it was only Clive and me that fateful day, one I shall never forget for the rest of my life."

Jet jumped, discovering that the annoying white cat that refused to leave him alone had decided to use his leg as a scratching post, sharpening his claws with serene happiness and content. He booted it away again, making a hissing noise that scared it away for good. Showing a rare grin, he continued to listen to her tale with satisfied silence.

"What happened?" Virginia asked curiously.

"My team owed money to various people after acquiring a base at Humphrey's Peak, this very house that you sit in right now. We were in financial crisis, so Clive and I tried to alleviate the problem by excavating an amount of dragon fossils to pay off the debt. Several good leads told us about a ruin filled with the material we needed, but unsurprisingly, we were not the only ones on such a venture. We were very shocked to find Ravendor and a few others working the ruins themselves, and for that, we had no choice but to become direct rivals. However, his goal was a very different one to ours. While we wanted the fossils scattered in the walls, he was using his knowledge of history to hunt for one of the legendary golems, Diablo, the crimson Hellstorm, rumoured to sleep in the site's depths." Abashed, she rolled up the sleeve of her clothing, exposing her bare arm. A long scar that spoke of previous agony marked most of her upper arm and a little past the elbow, healed but capable of making a hale onlooker squirm. "Here is one of the scars I bear, my own personal chock, you could say."

"Guardians!" Gallows exclaimed, "Who did it to you?" How blasphemous, to see a beautiful woman like Catherine mutilated so. Gallows's mind was usually one track, but a girl like her did not deserve such a terrible brand.

"Fate." She replied calmly, continuing with the recollection. "You see, Ravendor's team and my team split ways at an intersection, we went left and they went right. Apparently, both led us directly to the heart of the ruin, though we met many monsters along the way, we were able to dispatch most of them and escape unscathed. In the heart of the ruin, there was a huge edifice, encrusted with all the fossils we would need to pay off all our debts and then some, it was an opportunity we simply could not pass up. Clive had been experimenting with a new type of bomb he had invented to shatter stone in a controlled environment. He set the danger area, just enough firepower to remove the wall without causing damage to the foundation, while I covered his back, but…" Catherine paused to suppress a small giggle of irony, thinking back on it, the next part was almost humorous. "What neither of us was aware of, on the other side of the edifice and wall, Ravendor's team was _also_ setting a blast area with just enough firepower to take out the wall and keep the ruin standing. You can guess what happened next, can't you?"

"Heh, I get it," Jet declared softly, "Twice the power, explosion gets over the top, everything goes 'Boom!'" 

Virginia held a hand over her mouth, cringing at what she pictured the next part to be like. Death by a crushing burial, she shuddered, imagining how frightful it would be. "And that is why you thought Ravendor died?" Catherine nodded, "But you survived… how?"

"Instinctively, I shielded Clive from most of the impact with my body by throwing myself on top of him. I am the Aegis, it was my duty to protect him. All that I knew afterwards, I heard from Clive himself, ages after the incident itself. As it were, a small fraction of the ruin kept some of it's structure, and Clive was fairly unhurt because of my efforts, except for a broken arm, wrist and total blindness from the flash of the explosion. He carried me out of the deathtrap, despite his impaired vision and injury, aware of the fact that I was more than half-dead, he refused to leave me there to rot. Luck saved us all, Ravendor's horses had remained tethered outside the ruin, so he stole one and managed to ride back to Humphrey's Peak with me in tow. How he navigated the horse without the aid of sight, I shall never uncover, but he got us to the town's clinic before he himself fainted and did not revive again for three entire days."

She traced her finger around the rim of her teacup, the liquid inside had finally gone cold. "It was touch and go from the very beginning, I was told that I practically died several times during my critical stage. Eventually, my condition stabilized, but I was in a coma for two whole months, almost every bone in my body had been broken, it was a miracle that I did not suffer any brain damage. I was so lucky that the doctors in this town were some of the finest, or I would have never been restored to the waking world. When I regained consciousness, you could not believe how mortified I was to find Clive sitting beside my bed, no longer capable of sight. It was so scary, I wondered what had happened, for I had no memory of the incident itself. It came back through time, but it was an awful era of my life, it seemed to never end. Six months passed before Clive could see again, and in those months he cared for me and brought me back to health, despite his blindness. That was how I came to… truly fall in love with him."

"Wow…" Virginia breathed, baffled. "How romantic! I never thought things like that actually happened out of novels… Wow." The more important part of the tale hit her and she added; "So really, you were too busy to even think of Ravendor until after you recovered. Well, you can't blame yourself at all, Catherine."

"You are right, I do not blame myself, but Clive still does, though he and Ravendor had become bitter rivals. He still honoured their friendship, but he could not go back, not when he was blind, and after that, he was taking care of me." Catherine hung her head sadly. "I was such a burden, I could not drift anymore, I had lost the strength to continue my flight, my wings were too broken to fly… Nevertheless, Clive remained to help my father, with or without me, and after we had arranged to be engaged, years later, the second incident occurred, of which you already know. If only I could have flown, perhaps my father would still be around today. I always wanted to show him his granddaughter… But this is how my story ends." She set her teacup on the coffee table, sighing.

"That still doesn't explain why that guy took your kid." Jet pointed out bluntly.

"The reasons I am still unclear of, but I am sure Clive will uncover them, if he is able." Catherine stood up, the other drifters seeing the woman in another light now that her tale was over. She had strength, great strength, a power that could not be found in an ordinary run-of-the-mill housewife. "Now tell me, what is the change that has come over my husband?" She looked directly at Virginia for an explanation, because she was their leader.

Virginia's gaze fell to the ground, trying to find some words that would best explain their predicament. When she tried to start, she found herself tongue-tied, and wished that somebody else could just take her position over. "It would be easier," She managed to murmur out, "If we were to head for Baskar Colony, I would want to explain it to everyone there, so we can have the input of Shane, Halle and the others for direction. I'm not really gifted with words, Catherine, I honestly hope you don't mind."

She smiled reassuringly. "Of course not. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Virginia. Heaven forbid, I do hate the feeling myself. If you think it is a good idea, then I will trust you." Reaching out with a hand, she pulled Virginia to her feet, "I have not visited Baskar before, it will be an interesting experience."

"Oh, sure!" Gallows's agreed positively, "You'll love it! We got lots of, um, stuff… and some more… stuff."

"Somebody find this guy a thesaurus!" Virginia laughed, glad that Catherine could understand her predicament, "Before it's too late!"

"Wait a sec!" Jet cut in disapprovingly, standing up from his seat against the wall, "We're takin' _her_ with us? You sure that's a good idea?" Jet hated the idea of dragging extra dead weight along with him, it was troublesome enough to defend his other companions without taking on another inexperienced third.

"Turn around." Somebody said commandingly. Jet automatically did so, turning to the left. He froze, the end of the Gungnir only an inch away from his nose. Click, click. Snap. The bolt was cleared and Catherine smiled. "Clive is not the only sniper in the family." She admonished, playfully taunting him and lowering the weapon.

"But it ain't your ARM!" Jet protested, "How the hell can you synchronize without your own ARM?"

"That is simple," She answered smoothly, "People with a high compatibility to each other have very similar synchronization rates. Clive and I are very compatible, so therefore, I am capable of wielding his weapon." It had been years since she last held a gun, it felt very comforting to feel the trigger under her index finger once more. But did she still have her skill? She would just have to find out. "Come outside," She implored, "I would like to test my accuracy, if you will."

Grumbling at being slightly humiliated by Catherine, Jet huffed out of the door in silence, able to display his discontent without any words being shared. Gallows reluctantly got up from the very comfortable chair he was lodged in, following Virginia out the door. The birds were still chirping outside, oblivious to the tragedy that had befallen the occupants of the house. Catherine was the last to emerge, locking the front door with a key and facing everybody else. "Well?" Jet said impatiently, "Let's see what you got."

Catherine could not help but feel that she was being tested, it made her a little nervous. "Can somebody please lend me a gella coin?" She asked, "I will need it for my demonstration." Receiving money from Jet was out of the question, but Virginia and Gallows searched their pockets until one of them found a small circular silver coin to use, it had some pocket lint glued to it's surface, but it was brushed away and shown to her with confidence. She readied the ARM. "Thank you, now take five steps back and throw the coin high into the air, do it steadily and don't hesitate."

"Heads or tails?" Gallows asked.

"Just do it." Jet ordered, crossing his arms.

Shrugging, Gallows flipped the coin with his thumb, sending the piece of silver sailing up and over their heads. As quick as lightning, Catherine pointed the rifle up, squinted one eye shut and paused for a second to gather her bearings, looking through the scope and slowly squeezing the trigger. The surrounding crack of the ARM being fired whistled past their ears, two separate tinkling sounds following as a gentle afterthought to the noise. An empty bullet shell rolled to a halt at Catherine's feet, smouldering from the sudden discharge of it's gunpowder and pellet. Nearby, the gella coin also fell to the ground, in a different shape to what it used to be. Gallows picked up the coin, impressed. It looked like a crescent moon, half of it's body had been blown away. 

"Cool…" Gallows breathed, "Majorly cool."

"Well, I am a little out of practice…" Catherine apologized, rapping her fingers against Gungnir's side, "But I think I can improve, if given the time. Is that adequate, Jet?"

"Fine. Alright, she can come… but only if she can hold her own." He mumbled, secretly impressed by her accuracy like the others, but determind not to show it.

Happily, Virginia moved around and slung her arms around both Catherine and Jet, smirking cheerfully. "Well, well! I can see this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, you two! Welcome to the team, Catherine!"

She watched the subtle look of loathing merged with a concealed fondness that Jet shot their young leader, and she strapped the rifle to her back, vaguely wishing she still had her old drifting clothes. It didn't matter, what she was wearing would be fine enough, but she untied the white apron around her waist and let it fall to the ground, severing her ties to the life she had recently lead. Catherine had mended her broken wings, strong enough to fly against the winds of adversity and bring those she loved back home. It was her strength, the dormant drifter had been born again.

"I shall do my best to protect you from danger," She promised, "The Aegis had reawakened."


	22. Tiny Drifter Wings

Romero flung the cabin door wide open, stepping in like he expected a bright spotlight to illuminate his figure with majesty. Barely anybody noticed his entrance, only one person even bothered to lift their head and look at him, for the others were busy in their own distracting affairs. Dario snored like he was trying to raise the dead, if he gave a little more effort, he might even manage to do so. Ravendor's head was down as he continued to polish his pistol, humming a soft tune and remaining oblivious to Dario's snores. Kaitlyn glanced at the door where Romero stood, wondering who this new person was and swinging her legs off the bench. He coughed for extra attention. "I'm back." He announced.

"Were you able to find the facilities?" Ravendor asked, blowing into the funnel of his ARM and pushing the oily rag down it's shaft, cleaning the inside. Momentarily, he showed the weapon to Kaitlyn, the small blonde girl seated next to him, who made a little impressed noise, she had never gotten so close to a gun before. Seeing that Kaitlyn was interested, he carefully passed her the weapon, not afraid to give it to a child because she would be unable to synchronize with it, and also, it was unloaded. She took it reverently, holding it away from her body and turning it over with awe.

"…Yeah," Romero murmured uncertainly, tugging self-consciously at his bandanna, "Well, kinda." With luck, nobody would enter the cabin Romero had 'used' until they had all departed the train. He walked into the cabin, roughly shoving Dario aside, the bandit pushed like a sack of potatoes and leaning against the glass of the window, undignified. Romero put his feet up on the remainder of the long bench, blatantly disregarding the sign posted neatly on the wall that advised him not to.

"Hello. Are you my kid-napper too?" Kaitlyn asked, motioning with her freed hands. Romero had his good eye to the wall of the cabin, so when he turned around to see the girl, he tensed as Ravendor's ARM was pointed directly at him, losing his balance and falling off his perch. "Um, Mister? Are you okay?" She leant forward, worried.

Ravendor started to chuckle. "My, it appears that you have frightened him, little one." Kaitlyn looked adoringly perplexed, cocking her head to one side in confusion. Then she glanced down at the pistol and came to an understanding, giving the gun back to Ravendor so Romero wouldn't be scared anymore. "I take it you are interested in ARMs, Kaitlyn?" He inquired, unlatching the empty revolving clip of his weapon.

Eagerly, she nodded, immediately losing interest in the blonde bandit. "Yes! A lot! But, my Daddy won't let me near any guns, so I can only watch him practice sometimes." Kaitlyn became thoughtful. "Maybe someday I can have a real gun of my own!"

The leader of the kidnappers absently berated himself for growing so attached to this child so quickly, smiling warmly. "It is not very difficult to handle an ARM." He explained fondly, pulling a single black bullet from out of the white material of his jacket pocket and sliding it into one of the slots in the revolver, snapping it closed so that the ARM was set to fire once, and _only_ once. "Here, I will show you." Cautiously, so that Kaitlyn could see that he meant no harm, he wrapped one arm around her back and placed both his hands over her much tinier ones, black leather gloves over pale skin. Now, both of them were holding the loaded ARM together, pointed at the floor.

"Can I really _shoot_ it?" She wondered with incredulity, noting how much lighter the weapon was now that Ravendor helped to hold it up. It was only a revolver pistol, but to her, it was still heavy. Black and well-polished, with a slight silver lining around the butt and highlights, an engraved letter 'R' on the handle, the weapon appeared to be like it's owner, a mixture of darkness and light.

He continued with his lesson, giving her a quiet commentary. "This gun is called a Peacemaker, to be precise, a Peacemaker Frontier Mod 73. Now, aim it up… yes, like that. Good. Put your pointer finger over this small lever here, do not pull it just yet… Excellent." As he spoke, Ravendor tapped secretly into the synchronization between the ARM and himself, making it possible for it to be shot with Kaitlyn's underlying influence upon the weapon. With a thumb, he released the safety lock. All that was left was to pull the trigger. "When I say three," Ravendor whispered, "Pull the tab and see what will happen." Kaitlyn bit her lip, anxious to succeed. "One, two… three."

Dario landed on top of Romero, startled out of his nap by the loud noise of a pistol going off very close to him, flattening the younger bandit underneath him. Smoke rose from the end of the barrel, discharged of it's singular piece of ammo. A newly-made bullet hole smouldered in the wall, right in the head of the little man on the sign, telling passengers not to place their feet on the benches. Kaitlyn was in a minor state of shock for a few fleeting seconds, there had been a small recoil from the gun that was barely noticeable, but the impact of what she had just achieved hit her swiftly and viciously. Getting over it, she broke out into a huge grin of pride, bouncing in her seat. "I did it! I did it! I shot an ARM! Uncle Ravendor, look!"

Inwardly, Ravendor choked. _Did she just call me what I thought she did?_ He asked himself, showing absolutely no reaction to the title on the outside. He took the gun from her hands and put it safely back in his holster, resting contentedly near his heart. The two minions squirmed as Romero threw the half-awake Dario off with a well-placed shoulder jab, embarrassed that they panicked at such a meagre scare.

"Am I dead yet?" Dario asked sleepily, his face on the ground, butt sticking up in the air comically. Romero kicked him in the side, soft enough not to really hurt, but hard enough to knock some sense into the bearded bandit.

"'Course not!" Romero scolded his older brother harshly, "It were just a wake-up call!" Dario put his hat back on, lying beside him on the floor and sniffed, yawning and sitting up. The floor was vibrating slightly from the perpetual motion of the carriage, a muffled creaking under the floor hinting of vast mechanical instruments, hidden from view.

"A fine shot." Ravendor said, patting Kaitlyn on the back and praising her. The girl beamed, becoming more comfortable in the presence of the drifter team. She didn't think they were _that _bad, though she had no knowledge of exactly what they planned to do with her. Ravendor and his team didn't do any of the nasty things kidnappers are reputed to have committed in all the books she had read. Was she misinformed?

However, Kaitlyn was not as childish as she outwardly acted. She still really wanted to go home, and in her mind, she tried to think up a method of escape. The door was shut and the window was out of the question, no, she had no choice but to stay with her Uncle Ravendor and nice Mister Dario, for now. She would be like Martha Jane Connery, the 'disaster girl' of the wastelands, and escape unscathed, just like her favourite fictional character.

The door unlocked from the other side all by itself, the assistant on the train pulling it open and glancing around the small and mildly cramped room. Tony frowned, "Did I just hear gunfire?" He asked, personally wondering why only the gunslingers decided to use the rail system and wishing his job were easier.

"No," Replied Ravendor, blatantly lying and being well aware that he was doing so. "Perhaps you hallucinate?" Kaitlyn started to giggle and the dark-haired man smiled openly, risking a quick look at the hole in the wall. Thankfully, it was not smoking anymore. As long as Tony did not inspect the wall, they would be blameless.

Tony sighed and sagged a bit, if they made any damages, it would come out of his pay check. "Yeah well, the arrival will be in a few minutes. Please gather all your belongings together and get ready to depart."

"Thank you for the information." Ravendor said graciously, patting his pockets to make sure all his items were still secure in his inventory. He wanted to get to a wide open space so he could light up another cigarette without harming Kaitlyn. They were all travelling rather light, so it only took a few brief seconds to get ready and wait outside in the corridor. As Ravendor moved out of the cramped room, he felt a small hand slipped into his and was frozen for a second, Kaitlyn was trailing close behind, determined not to be left alone.

"Uncle Ravendor, where are we going?" She asked, peering down the corridor from behind the folds of Ravendor's white jacket. The train was beginning to slowly come to rest at the station's platform, the group of bandits and hostage following their leader over to where the carriages were connected, steam hissing from all sides of the wheels. Kaitlyn almost misplaced her foot near the end of the platform, but was reinforced by Dario and kept safe. Romero loitered behind them, hands in his pockets.

__

Puh. Those two like playin' Daddy? Weirdos… Romero snorted to himself, incessantly pondering over what it was exactly that endeared competent people to small children. In Romero's view, they were just annoying pests.

Ravendor repeated to Kaitlyn what he had explained to his two minions, remembering to change the words he had used for the sake of better understanding. "We are going to my special place, little one, a secret hideout that only _I_ know about." The train blew a hollow whistling noise from the engine room, enchanting Kaitlyn who hardly ever heard such a sound. To her, it was like the proclamation of an adventure.

In a single file they stepped off the train, the only passengers transported by the steaming snake of iron and machinery. Sand got in their eyes immediately, a harsh wind from the south propelling the granules across the station. Romero pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth to block out the invasion, cursing the desert they lived in. Not even Ravendor could ignore such an aggravation, turning up the corner of his jacket's collar to blot out the relentless gusts. Kaitlyn let go and covered her face with her hands, exposed until Ravendor opened one side of his jacket around the girl, keeping her close to his side for protection. Dario grinned and bore the onslaught, minus the grinning part.

"We almost there?" Romero whined, hoping that the hideout was close and spluttering on the sand that got caught in his mouth. Dune Canyon was structured like a large basin, catching all the rough winds that blew across Filgaia. Physics declared that those winds would rarely cease their marathons across the land, not until erosion took it's toll, and it would be many lifetimes before that could happen.

The leader shook his head, irked by all the sand that was getting caught in his hair. "Not yet. We have another hike to finish first. Load your weapons and prepare for random encounters. There are still some troublesome nuisances left in the wastelands." Romero made a long verbal protest to the thought of another hike, the voice in his stomach telling him that some kind of meal was overdue.

Kaitlyn watched from her vantage point as the bandit team readied their ARMs, apart from Romero who made a check that his throwing stars were close at hand. The sense that this game of babysitting was becoming much more than what they had told her clamped down on her young mind, and she knew she had to _do_ something for herself before it would be too late. Kaitlyn knew her position, what could a little girl do against an entire _team_ of kidnappers?

__

I can't do anything… She thought, a suffocating feeling of homesickness pulling her spirit down, forcing her eyes to water for another reason than just the sand violating them. _I don't have a big gun like Daddy, and I'm not a hero… What do I do?_ She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, wishing that someone would come and rescue her. But, nobody knew where she was, didn't they?

__

What… do I do? Will Daddy find me? Will he look?

…

__

He can't find me if he doesn't know where I am… How can… I change that…?

Kaitlyn looked through the recesses of her short memory, to a book her father had read to her one night, where Calamity Jane had been shanghaied by a team of murderous pirates, and so the heroine had left clues to her entourage that enabled them to come and save her. Leaving a trail of clues… It did seem like a good idea, if Kaitlyn could execute it properly, maybe she might have a chance. In order to go home to her parents, Kaitlyn would try anything. 

She shoved her hands into the small pockets of her blue dress, fumbling for anything she could drop that might render a clue. Pocket lint, a one gella coin, a brown pebble, a handkerchief and a strip of paper all came to her fingertips, but none of them could suffice. Scratch that plan, it looked hopeless for her. Kaitlyn hiccuped and held her head sadly, she would never get to go home.

It was then that divine inspiration hit her young mind, Kaitlyn's eyes widened with sudden insight. Her blue ribbons, her father would never miss that, not in a million years. She halted her tears and blinked in astonished hope, finding her answer. Now, to plant the evidence, she had a fairly good idea on how to do it, it was a method most children used to get their own way. Phoney crocodile tears.

Ravendor pulled her forward again as the team began to walk out of the station. Kaitlyn had to do this right, she only had one convincing shot at this, and she didn't want to foul up. There was a short flight of steps past the ticket booth they had to cross, the obscure location of the station making repairs difficult and not really needed. They were old and a little warped, perfect for her use. Kaitlyn forced her eyes closed and made a little gasp of fear, willing another wave of tears to form behind her eyes. This was going to hurt.

__

Be brave… Be brave… I can do it!

When Ravendor led her down the steps of the station, Kaitlyn summoned up all the strength that she possessed in her small frame and wrenched her hand away from his, intentionally throwing herself ahead and falling down the steps, skinning her knee on one of the wooden planks. Her kneecap began to burn and she knew she was bleeding, but she ignored it for a second as the shock value this placed on Ravendor was priceless. It gave her enough time to rapidly untie one of her ribbons and push the fabric under her body, letting phase two of her plan run into action.

Sheer will and pain fuelled her into action. Kaitlyn sat up, grabbed at her knee, and began to bawl, tears running down her cheeks. Kaitlyn figured this was something she was pretty good at, acting, it had given her an unfair edge over the other children in Humphrey's Peak countless times. She felt a pair of strong hands pick her up and hold her, so the ribbon was now visible to the bandit team. To combat this, she began to flail and thrash, throwing a fearsome tantrum and making sure all attention was set squarely on herself.

Ravendor looked concerned. "Is she alright?" He asked.

Dario inspected her knee, the white stocking she wore was ripped and grazed. "It's just a hissy fit, She'll be right in a sec." He announced, "But uh, d'ya have a Band-Aid or somethin'?" He checked his own pockets and found one, though it was pretty old. Disregarding this, he managed to put it on her scrape while she cried, almost getting kicked in the process.

Kaitlyn calmed down, now that she had completed her mission successfully. She stood up and dusted her dress off, hardly expecting any first-aid treatment. The little girl pulled out her hanky and dried her tears, feeling Ravendor take her other hand once more. She used the cloth to hide the smile she could not keep to herself any longer. They were walking again and they didn't notice her lost ribbon. She had won a small victory, and it made her feel as proud as Calamity Jane herself.

"Will you be okay, Kaitlyn? I apologize, I was careless and let you fall, please forgive me." Ravendor said quietly to her, looking at the child. He had resolved to not let her get hurt until it was necessary, but his plans seemed to be emerging prematurely.

"It's alright, Uncle Ravendor," Kaitlyn reassured him, her voice was still wobbly from her crying, "I'll be okay now."

Pushed by the strong wind, the vibrant blue ribbon became airborne, where it was snared on a jutting piece of wood, flapping in the breeze, like a beacon of childlike hope.


	23. The Newest Dragoon

Four people, all equipped with ARMs of their own, left with each other as they exited the oasis town, slightly refreshed from their brief stay, but more confused than ever. Catherine had answered many questions and added pieces to a rapidly forming puzzle, yet these only opened more doors of consideration, and this time, they led into the unknown. Virginia wasn't even positive they were doing the right thing, taking Catherine along with them and letting Clive brave the wilderness, alone and unarmed. The images of the three dead bodies flashed through her mind and she shivered. If Clive could inflict damage like that without a weapon, then she guessed he didn't have much to worry about, _if he could control himself._

As for Catherine, she may have been an adept drifter in the past, but Virginia was still worried that she could get herself into a lot of trouble, even if she slipped up only once. Catherine was walking next to her in the lead, wearing hard determination openly on her face. She had replaced her sadness with resolution, and although she looked quite fragile, that alone made her tough enough to be a drifter. For a moment, Virginia imagined herself in Catherine's shoes, understanding then and there why she had chosen to come. She had lost her daughter, she didn't want to lose her husband as well. If she helped, maybe both of them could come back alive. The woman could accomplish nothing if she remained at her home, waiting for the inevitable. 

Gallows didn't like this at all. After leaving the quiet and sleepy town, Catherine had explained to Jet and himself the reason they were missing one team member, and the truth made the Baskar apprehensive of everything around him. He only hoped Granny and Shane knew about all the things he was so embarrassingly unaware of, things that would be able to help Clive out. Jet was just moody, like a dark cloud had settled over his head and was contemplating whether rain or a thunder strike would best tick him off. "Let's move a little bit more," Suggested Gallows, putting on a burst of speed and moving to the front of their group, "Lombardia can't really fit in so close to the town." 

"Don't let her hear you say that." Virginia warned him, thinking of all the damage an upset dragon could cause. It would be interesting to watch the results, but only from a safe distance away. 

"Lombardia is the dragon you informed me about, right?" Catherine guessed. Back when she helped to excavate ruins, she had read many texts on the subject of Dragons, great beast machines that bore an absolute destructive power. Clive had told her about Lombardia before, but seeing a dragon with her own eyes would be an interesting treat. 

"She may seem terrifying," Virginia reassured her, "But she is really quite nice once you get to know her." 

"But isn't she a machine?" Catherine asked.

"It don't matter," Jet said defensively, interrupting them, "Who gives a damn if they ain't all flesh 'n blood, 'long as they-" 

"Have a heart and soul!" Virginia finished for him, smiling and motioning to the silver-haired android. "Just like our very own Jet here!" The boy glowered at the interruption, but eventually realised he was being complemented indirectly and turned away. 

"Oh, I'm sorry." Catherine apologised. She had forgotten that Jet wasn't exactly human and could be more likened to a scientific experiment. How insensitive she had been. "I didn't mean to-" 

"S'okay. Forget it." He replied coldly, putting the topic behind him. It wasn't worth dwelling on. However ironically, it was that fact that made him the most talented one at contacting Lombardia from afar, wherever she may be. Jet closed his eyes and focussed his thoughts into the vast framework of telecommunication, if he did this right, he should be able to get Lombardia online. 

_Hey, dragon? Come over here, we need your help… _

It was distant and laced with distortion, but Jet received an answer. Lombardia's voice had no sound to it, but it was also far too deep to define, depth and non-existence combined together as one. Sometimes, Jet could feel a kind of kinship with the ancient dragon, they were both creations that had no desire to be brought into the world, a world of sand and dust. 

… **_Thy will be done. _**

Gallows and Virginia mentally eavesdropped on their short conversation, Catherine was left out because she did not hold with her a dragoon status. Gallows scratched his chin, the telepathic response came from far away, Lombardia had probably gone back to her volcanic den, which meant it would be a while until she could reach them where they stood. "Now, we wait," Virginia told Catherine, "She'll be here soon." 

Jet looked around. Asides for dirt and rock, the highlands were empty. Strange, months ago, he couldn't stand here for so long without being bombarded by a horde of slavering monsters. It made him feel unnaturally old to admit this, but times sure had changed. The boy nudged Gallows to get his attention, pulling out his airget-lamh. "Call us a monster with your dolls. I feel like a fight." he ordered. 

The Baskar sighed with irritation, as soon as the reference was made, the two Kramer dolls were animated in his inventory pack, squirming around like they were trying to crawl out and escape, eager to play their cursed mantra. It seemed stupid to him now, but a little while ago he had given the two dolls names, mainly because he was bored and needed some entertainment. The doll with the mini drum set was called Cosmo Kramer, he had no idea why, but the name had popped into his head one day. The same was true of the trumpet one, oddly titled Cid Kramer. Gallows sometimes wondered if the dolls were indeed bewitched like the old ARMsmith had warned him, and if so maybe the dolls were the ones who had named themselves. He took his ukulele out and look to see if it was okay with their leader. 

Virginia sat down on a boulder, weather-beaten by constant exposure to the elements. "Go ahead, but leave me out of this one." She said, resting. Catherine was staring up into the sky, trying to locate the dragon that was to come. It didn't look like she wanted to fight much, either. 

"You're on your own." Gallows cautioned, two pairs of glassy doll eyes peeking out of his tool bag. He plucked a note and the toys appeared, levitating on both sides of the Baskar, their own little instruments raised. 

"Sure, whatever. I don't care." Jet loaded the machine gun and held it over his shoulder, awaiting the fight. He was looking forward to this, he hadn't fought in ages. His airget-lamh was practically screaming to be used. The short little tune was definitely not a symphonic masterpiece, it grated on the ears and had only a basic melody, but as it was played, sound waves dissolved into the ether and called every monster from miles around to their source. This contented the Kramer dolls deeply and their curse temporarily ended, becoming inanimate objects once more. After that, Gallows sat down next to Virginia, claiming a rather good seat to watch the festivities from. 

Catherine eventually gave up on spotting the dragon and thought it best to be patient, moving away and giving Jet just enough room to await an encounter. Over her shoulder and near her gun, she had been quick-witted enough to grab Clive's bag of medical supplies before she left, and for something to do, she sorted through the stuff to see what he had stocked. Antidotes, peppy acorns, seed powder, several kinds of medicinal mushrooms, seasonings and a squashed sandwich at the bottom that had either been an overlooked lunch months ago, or a creative way of growing penicillin. Catherine looked at it and she could have sworn that it moved, deciding to swiftly pick it up with two fingers and discard the weird creation, allowing it to return to the soil.

 Aside from medicines, there were other things inside that caught her interest, a deck of cards, several rocks of an unusual colour, an old travel guide that was practically falling apart and some kind of woodwind instrument, only half-carved out of a piece of lumber. She opened the guide and flipped to the first page, this book must have been borrowed because it had Ravendor's name printed neatly in the corner, Clive probably had forgotten to give it back. A slip of paper fell out between the pages and she bent over to reclaim it. It was a photograph, black and white, but familiar. 

A Christmas photo, taken many winters ago, it was old enough for Kaitlyn to be a tiny babe in her arms and for Clive not to look as careworn as he did now. Yes, this was the first year of their marriage, only a little while after her father's death. Yet, they looked very happy, happier than what Catherine could remember. Maybe it was just her current situation getting her down, but the picture seemed to be of another family, one that was just a memory. Still, the photo made her smile. 

She glanced up from the guidebook as she heard the sound of Jet hitting the ground and Gallows cheering, seeing the boy struggling to knock four twin tails off his chest as they ceaselessly scratched at him, hissing. He smacked one aside with his gun and ripped off another as it dangled from one of the shreds of his bandanna. The monsters were like rabid balls of teeth, claws and orange fluff, throwing themselves as Jet as soon as they were knocked away. He stepped back and accelerated his motion, watching with precision the animal flying directly at his face, yowling wildly. The cat flinched in midair as Jet let loose and filled it with hot lead, the thrill of the fight giving him a much sought after rush. He fell to one knee immediately after his metabolism slowed down again, simultaneously dodging another feline that went over his head and slamming his clenched fist to the ground, calling forth an elemental attack. 

"Inspire!" 

Behind Jet, the feline touched down onto the earth, landing with it's front paws and leaving it's hind legs in the air, the creature's regular posture. It screeched as a bolt of lightning struck it hard, crumpling and twitching, nervous system destroyed by the electricity. 

"Yaaay, Jet! Go, go, go!" Virginia yelled from the sidelines. 

By a miscalculated move, Jet stopped to glance at Virginia, lowering his weapon. The biggest and nastiest twin tail from the pack, the leader, pounced on him and latched onto Jet's throat, throwing him off balance and falling. A little trickle of blood ran down and collected into the hollow of his neck, Jet dropped his gun and grabbed the cat with both hands, trying to pry the thing off. 

"Let go, Jet," A voice said, "Drop your hands, please." Jet obeyed the voice and removed his hands, really wanting the cat off him so he could pound it into the ground. There was a long whooshing sound and the cat was knocked away, heavy metal grazed Jet's neck and he rubbed at the scratch marks that stung a little bit. He heard a snapping crunch and jumped to his feet, hardly expecting any cavalry to come and lend a hand. A blemish of blood and orange fur was stuck to the end of the Gungnir, having clubbed one of the twin tails to death. Catherine felt shock claw at her insides, it was a peculiar sensation to fight again, she was surprised enough that the ability was still there. 

"Don't just stand there!" The boy barked, "There's still one left!" He slapped a hand to his forehead, Catherine turned to him, unable to see the final creature behind her, about to strike. It's bright yellow eyes gleamed with feral malice, the pupil just a slit of darkness amongst an amber shine. It's two tails flicked around in the air, puffed out in aggression. A meow became a low hiss, and it leaped. 

The last cat exploded in a mess of gore and fur, slammed several yards back and mangled into a pile of entrails, an impression in the ground smoking and marking the site of it's death. Jet stared at it in astonishment, before looking up at the dragon hovering in the sky, missile silos opened. Lombardia was still a crack shot when it came to heavy artillery, that was for certain. The power turbines attached to her sides blew wind in every which way as she descended onto the highlands impossibly slow, shifting out of aeromech mode and into a form that was much more draconic. Catherine held her hair out of her eyes, transfixed by the huge and hulking form of thousands of years worth of technology, presenting itself out right in front of her. 

**_Thou hast summoned me. What is thy bidding? _**

"Hey 'Bardi," Gallows called, using a weird nickname that only seemed cute to him, "Great aim, as usual. You been practicing?" 

If it were possible, Lombardia would have raised an eyebrow. **_Why dost thou desirest mine company? Speak, and let thine answer be known_**. By an unseen instinct, she detected the aura of a person who had not proven herself to be in her presence, the dragon leant down over Catherine, invisible waves of heat discharged from her baking breath. **_Who is this that_ ****_stands before a dragon and does not tremble? No human has done so, and lived._ She snorted, blowing steam everywhere. **

"Hello." Catherine said meekly. "I am, um… The wife of one of your dragoons, L-Lombardia." The huge power that emanated from the dragon was so intense, Catherine felt like her soul was being crushed into the ground, degraded into what it really was in comparison to this titan, nothing. A loud humming was emitted from the dragon's engine, like it's breath rocked the earth itself. 

**_Yes… It is shown…_** Using an ancient technique, Lombardia probed the outside of Catherine's mind, searching through memory and will for a truth that needed to be proven. **_Thou speakest the truth, tiny human. Yet, thine own wings have barely been spread again, what_** **_makest_****_ thou think thy can soar on great wings of steel, that many men have died to attain? _Speak.__ **

Jet reclaimed his gun that lay on the ground, kicking away the body of a dead twin tail. Was it just him, or were the monsters getting tougher? He acknowledged the arrival of the dragon and wandered over to the others, she seemed to be judging Catherine for the rights of a dragoon. Himself and the original team had tickets to the wide blue sky, Catherine did not. She should have thought of that before she resolved to tag along with them, they had to fight Lombardia herself for that privilege, and Catherine would die instantly if she were to try the same thing. 

"… Were I to speak truthfully," Catherine replied, hiding her fear, "I could honestly say that I do not wish have such a privilege. I prefer the law of gravity, personally, and I do not think somebody like me is worthy of a title like that. But I… my choices are limited, and my time is short. Please, Lombardia. I must go with them, if the texts about your kind are correct, then you must be able to see my memories. You should know the reason why I come to you, and as a mother and wife, no, as a human being, I have to help them, in any way I can." Every word she spoke made her stronger, and in the end she looked straight up and into the eyes of the great dragon, it was like looking into the pits of all eternity. "Protection is what made me a drifter, and protection is what will make me a dragoon!" And all at once, as her speech ended, Catherine found herself back on terra firma, her determination spent. 

**_… _**

Lombardia rumbled in a mood of indecision, sharp pointed teeth grated in her large maw. More steam billowed into the air, adding extra heat to the atmosphere. Virginia stepped up, though the dragon was her friend, she was still slightly intimidating. "You don't have to think of her as another dragoon," She informed her, "Just as a replacement for Clive until he comes back. You can trust her, we all do." 

She got down onto her four mechanical legs, beastly face at the same level as the humans on the highlands, close to Catherine. The woman took a few steps back, trying to keep away from the burning heat of her breath. **_If…_She boomed, **_If_****_ more people had a conviction like thou,_** **_tiny human mother, then thy world would be harmonious and less would suffer. Very well. Upon metal wings thou shalt fly, 'til it be known that thy family is_** ****_reassembled._ **

"Thank you," Said Catherine, tears in her eyes, "Thank you." 

Gallows elbowed Jet in the ribs, grinning. "See? If Lombardia thinks she's alright, then she must be! Though I don't think it's fair," He added, "That we had to fight her and _she didn't." _

The android shrugged. "It'll take too long anyway. Ain't we on a schedule?" He watched the dragon shift again into aeromech mode, a long hatch in her side allowing ingress. Sometimes Lombardia seemed more like an animal, other times more like a machine. If she didn't communicate to him on a regular basis, Jet would have felt like he was commanding a different variation of the sandcraft, not a living entity with thoughts and feeling of it's own. 

Virginia led Catherine into the depths of Lombardia, her insides were like a white plastic room, a sort of seam running along the wall to give the room visible dimension. Nothing else was inside except for four seats, moulded directly from out of the wall. This was not what Catherine had expected, in all the ruins she had scoured through, many of them were bursting with technological wonders and terminals, if this dragon was the epitome of that vast knowledge, then she automatically assumed Lombardia would function in a similar way. 

Anyway, at least the room was not cluttered, though it was a little hard on the eyes. The three drifters each got into their respective seats, the one on the far left remained empty, Catherine guessed that it had been occupied by her husband. She felt awkward standing all alone while the others were not, so she carefully got into the seat, setting her hands upon two white orbs that emerged from the long armrests the seat bore. The motion connected something to her mind and she relaxed, things were feeling better already. 

"Screen on." Jet ordered, the previously white wall going transparent and relaying to them the image of the surrounding highlands, appearing smaller and more insignificant than Catherine had ever seen it. "Lombardia, prepare for lift-off, do you read me?" 

**_Preparation is pending… _**

Virginia flashed a smile at their newest dragoon. "Sit back and enjoy the ride, Jet'll navigate for us, you don't have to do a thing." Taking her hands off the control orbs, she put them behind her head and absently watched the screen, the land getting further away as Lombardia began to climb. They barely felt any turbulence, the dragon had everything under control. 

"This is remarkable, I feel I should be taking notes…" Catherine admitted, smiling. 

Across from them all, Gallows scratched the back of his head and chuckled, finding something funny. "You know, those were the exact same words Clive said when he first got in here. I just thought you might like to know." 

Their pilot moved his fingers expertly over the white orb that began to glow, an X and Y grid appearing to the side on one of the white walls. Jet locked in their destination swiftly, two little red dots appearing on the map, where they were, and where they wanted to be. He calculated the shortest route and executed the command, like a person who had total control. 

"Baskar Colony, Lombardia," Jet said with authority, "And step on it."


	24. Stopping A Deluge With One's Palms

The cracked earth and sand flew under his feet at a surprising pace, he pumped his legs as fast as was inhumanly possible, amazed that he did not tire out at all. He had run for a great extended period of time, whatever force that leant him such endurance would not let him slow down or rest. Timber boards replaced the dirt, yet Clive barely noticed this, his heart was doing the rumba inside his chest. Only the whistle of an approaching train caused him to halt in his tracks, the narrow world he had been focussed upon widening to allow his senses to pinpoint his exact location. Clive stood on the platform of East Highland Station, hands on his knees and panting from delayed fatigue. He had made it, though it taxed him, saving valuable time.

Clive gave himself a few moments to catch his long departed breath, for he was not used to a physical strain like this before, straightening up and moving to speak to the man in the ticket booth, brushing the dust off his coat and adjusting his glasses. Hopefully, the vendor might have some idea where Ravendor had taken Kaitlyn, for the scent trail came to an abrupt halt at the platform, Clive could only conclude that they must have taken a train.

The sniper groaned, the vendor was asleep, his head on the wooden bench and dreaming peacefully. Clive reluctantly laid a hand on his green uniformed shoulder and shook him mildly, careful not to be too rough. Through light snores the vendor proclaimed his love for someone called Wendy and remained in the land of Nod, oblivious to the troubles of the universe. An idea struck Clive, he raised a hand, animating a tiny flame using one of his more basic mediums, and held it under Walker's nose, specially conjured to rapidly heat, but not to burn.

The effect was instantaneous. Emitting a loud squawk, Walker jumped up and backward, bumping his head on the ceiling of his booth and rubbing his tender nose. "Ow, ow, ow!" He moaned, gathering his bearings, "Okay, who's the pyro, and let me at 'em!" He removed his hand from his face, expecting third degree burns, but his melodrama was unjustified as his nose was only slightly reddened from the flame.

"Walker," Clive greeted without cheer, "I am sorry to have woken you, but did you serve a drifting team led by a dark-haired man today?" He waved his hand and the fire vanished from his fingers, nothing but a small wisp of smoke showing that it ever existed. The vendor went totally silent for a time, thinking and going over all that had occurred in the day. Seeing that Walker was procrastinating on his answer, Clive elaborated his query ever further. "He is wearing mostly white and probably has a child in his custody, do you remember?"

The vendor placed a finger on his chin, habitually looking up and right into a corner of his booth, it helped him think. The wheels in his head were turning slowly today, having only recently being woken up by fire did not help, though he distinctly recalled such a team asking for tickets earlier in the morning. Or was that a dream, he was not sure.

"Oh yes," Walker said, the memory gradually dawning on him, "They were here a few hours ago, that person you are talking about and two other drifters. They bought some tickets and took the 10:12 express." He centred his gaze back to Clive who was trying to hide impatience outside of the booth, drumming his fingers on the bench. Two and two were put together in his mind, and Walker became confused. "Wasn't he your brother? He said something like that… Um, and he had Kaitlyn too."

__

So, I am correct. They **did** pass this way…

"I see." Clive replied darkly, removing his hands from the bench and dropping to his sides, fists clenching. A shadow fell across his soul, like it had done so before many times since the morning, but this time, it did not go away. Clive's suppressed anger anchored it to his being, and behind his glasses, the iris of his eyes darkened to a shadowy red. He felt this, but he did not mind, it actually made him feel better, stronger, more in control. "Tell me, _Walker_," He accentuated the ticket vendor's name, voice becoming more ominous, "Where did they take Kaitlyn? Where did they take my daughter?"

The uniformed man ducked under his booth for a second to pull out a bright yellow binder containing all the train timetables for the entire week. He opened the folder and pages and pages of seemingly unrelated numerical values danced all over the paper in messy handwriting. It was enough to make a discalculate person scream and run off into the horizon, never to come back. Walker flipped through a great many of them, though it looked impossible to determine which piece of paper was actually the correct one. "Let's see, here… Hmm…" He hummed, going aggravatingly slow, checking over a few pages twice. "It appears that I've misplaced the timetable," He admitted with a sorry smile, shrugging. "I don't really remember where, myself, but-"

His patience wore too thin, and it finally broke. With ferocious strength, he grabbed Walker roughly by his shirt collar, ripping the man from his ticket booth, whirling around and slamming him against a thick wooden pole, the vendor's feet dangling far from the ground. The yellow binder fell off the bench from the motion and all the written paperwork spilled out of it's confines, a gentle southern breeze picking up the tables and scattering them in the air, showering the lands with numbers. Walker's hands moved to struggle with Clive's, trying to release himself from the drifter's grip. The hold was unimaginable and unwavering, he was pressed into the wood until his back hurt, wondering what had happened.

"You had best remember swiftly, human. Tell me where they have taken her!" Boomerang demanded with a voice like death, Clive briefly shifting into someone else. This entity demanded extreme respect, and despite the fact that Walker knew nothing about what was wrong with the drifter in front of him, the sheer presence of the metal demon made fear roll off him in sheets.

"I-I… err, think it was- gack!" Boomerang wasn't letting go, on the contrary, he was making it very hard for Walker to think, the glint of his glasses hiding red malice like a shroud. "D-Dune Canyon! Yes, they took the train there, I swear!" He babbled, blurting out the answer that fear drove back into his mind. Boomerang paused for a bit, sensing to see if he was lying. The pressure let up and Walker was lowered a few inches, but he was not released. 

The demon considered the information, whispering something unintelligible under his breath and seeming to come to a silent decision. Boomerang looked away, at the train parked in the station, a metal monstrosity forged by human hands. "Are you _positive_?" He growled, "Dune Canyon is to the south? Yes," Now it looked like his was murmuring to himself, "Near the Tripillar, the land has changed, but…"

"Clive?" Walker choked, giving up on fighting and just going limp, "Put me down, please. I've told you all I know, really!"

Boomerang became confused, his brow furrowing in forced remembrance. "My name is… Clive? I think so, I am…" Startled, he released his hands and Walker fell, the vendor landing on the steps, unharmed. The demon blinked, realizing he was wearing something on his face, a pair of glasses. With astonishment, he grasped it by the frame and removed the object, transfixed. Since when had _he_ ever needed glasses, his vision was perfect enough without them. And these clothes, he was not in Quarter Knight uniform, he was dressed like a _human_. Boomerang lowered his arms like his was in a light trance and looked at his hands with mild disorientation. He did not understand, this was _not_ his body…

__

W-Where am I…? Why am I here? I am… supposed to be dead.

This is not my world, this is not my Filgaia…

Why am… I human?

…Luceid?

Panic filled his red eyes. Was he lost? What had happened? Whose body was this? He couldn't remember anything, just that his only companion, Luceid, was gone. And more than that, something else felt missing, a memory that had not yet transpired, he was missing a _future_. Where was his future? It had vanished, gone.

__

Luceid! I will find you, I promise! I will come back to you…

I will not let you down, my love…

Suddenly, he snapped out of it, like a rubber band being pulled and released. He stood there gaping for a moment, then remembered his manners and helped Walker up, apologising profusely. "I am so sorry! I do not know what happened- It has never occurred before." The vendor shrugged away from the drifter, fixing up his uniform that was in disarray. He rubbed his red nose again and scurried back into his booth, putting distance between the drifter and himself. After that mishap, Walker had lost all trust in the green-haired man, eyeing him warily. He had not expected _that_ to happen, not from a naturally gentle person like Clive, at least.

The sniper held his head, another headache had come to accompany the first, appearing as soon as that other entity had left. He put his glasses back on and moaned. Yes, that was it, that impeding soul was Boomerang, the demon that shared his body. And he… his impatient anger had made him willingly offer his vessel to him for a short while, and the first thing he had done with it was lash out at another innocent soul. Damn him to Hell, why could the demon not return there?

__

Are you the one doing this to me, Boomerang? Clive asked, but he got no reply. Yes, he was truly going crazy, talking to himself like this. Then he had a realization of Boomerang's actions, a shock that flooded his entire system, he had given the sniper another lead. The demon had helped him, by an outlandish twist of fate, Clive had another soul assisting him to find his daughter. He wanted to laugh, but at the same time, he wanted to hit himself. Boomerang may desire to help, but Clive had to keep him under control, this was one of the forces he had feared. A dangerous one.

"Dune Canyon?" He asked nobody in particular, before addressing Walker once more, the vendor trying to recover as much of the lost timetables as possible. "I have one more question, when does the next train to Dune Canyon leave, please tell me now!" Ravendor had left on the 10:12, that was much too long ago for his liking, they were still too far ahead.

Walker rattled the papers on his desk, straightening them out noisily. He looked up at the platform and the clock propped-up on the pole therein. "That one right there is leaving for the canyon, but you're a little too late for it now…" Clive followed the vendor's gaze, the stationed train was pulling away from the platform, his only ticket leaving before his own eyes. He couldn't make it, or could he? Clive sprinted away and up the stairs, dashing for the train before it could depart. "Heeey!" Walker cried, waving an arm, "You haven't bought a ticket yet!"

"I will pay for it later!" Clive replied over his shoulder and waving back, making Walker frown unhappily. The day wasn't going too good for him, and it was only the early afternoon. He absently wondered if a nice change in careers would be in order, one that he would be able to use his brain more, instead of just sleeping all the time. Something interesting. 

When he reached the end of the station, Clive still refused to give up. He lost half a second as he jumped off the platform and onto the train tracks, barely keeping up with the rumbling machine. It was picking up speed and Clive had to get aboard before it would be impossible to outrun. A demon he might have become, but even some creatures are unable to pace a train, no matter how deadly they are. He stretched his hand out for the rail at the end of the caboose, so close, and yet, so far. He was a few inches away from success. The muscles in his legs began to scream for more oxygen and Clive felt himself slow down a bit, breathing heavily and choking on the air. His mind came to one last decision and he took it, throwing everything to chance.

"Hox Pox!"

If chance would decide his fate, then Clive would give himself an unfair advantage, using the only Arcana he had that could help him in this situation. A materialized stream of confetti and stars leapt around his speeding figure and dissolved into the air, boosting his luck dramatically. This was the only hope he had left.

**__**

Please, let my luck be decent enough…

Clive raised his hand, took aim and focussed his mind, shooting his grappling iron at the carriage and praying for success. There was a clang and a scraping sound, the tool catching the handrail and remaining ensnared. With the slight manipulation of the tool, he retracted the rope and pulled himself onto the firm floor of the carriage, gasping for breath. He had done it. He was home free.

His legs gave way and he sat down cross-legged on the open miniature platform, watching East Highland Station disappear over the horizon. He smiled, glad that he had managed to get this far without any serious mishaps. "I am… getting too old for this…" He breathed, mood uplifting. Clive untangled the grappling iron from the rail and fixed it back into the metal band with a hidden compartment, strapped around his wrist. He was weaponless, but at least he still had all his tools with him, he could adapt them into makeshift weaponry if he could be creative enough. Bombs would suffice for long-ranged combat, and if a monster got to close, his pair of mighty gloves could pack a pretty big wallop, even more so now that his strength had increased. In addition, he could resort to his switchblade as well.

The door into the train was unlocked and creaked open behind the resting sniper, like an invitation to come inside. With his breath restored, Clive got back up and crept into the last carriage, wary of any other humans that might meet up with him. The corridors were empty and bare, not a soul seemed to be aboard. Clive looked into each open cabin, passing time and sating his curiosity. He didn't have anything to do until he got to the canyon, and he didn't want his mind to wander, because if it did, his guard might drop again, and…

__

And I may hurt someone… I don't… want to hurt people anymore…

There is no-one else around to harm… Why do you stress your mind? You should be grateful for the new abilities you have, not fearful…

… I just want Kaitlyn back, nothing more.

Do you? Are you sure that is your **only** desire?

Clive leaned against the doorframe, a slight bout of vertigo making him feel slightly queasy. When he resisted the power, he became sick and dizzy, fighting the demon inside hurt so badly, but when he gave in, it all went away. It felt so good… not to care…

__

No, you cannot change my mind! Nothing but pain and darkness comes from the demon race! I want no part of it!

Is that so? How hypocritical, do you not yet understand that you **are** of the demon race?

He finally realized that the voice in his head was not just his alone, it was transmitted directly from his ark sceptre. "Who… is this?" He asked, grabbing his throat to prevent the sickness from making him throw up. He knew that voice, it was the voice of his dream, beautiful, angelic, and familiar.

__

So naïve… Like a small child. I am desire, infinite desire. **Your** desire, to fight, to damage, to kill.

"Liar," Clive coughed out, "I have no desire to fight, not anymore." He awaited an answer, but the voice had fallen silent. As it left, so did the nauseating sensation and he felt a little better. So, the voice came from the ark sceptre, did that mean, it was the work of a Guardian? If he unequipped his mediums, maybe it would make things easier for him, but without his gungnir, he didn't want to risk combat without a proper weapon or magic. It would be suicide.

"Sir?"

Then somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and every thought and impulse in his head became completely immobile. Clive's eyes went wide. Somebody was standing _behind_ him. Once again, implanted instinct made him spin around and grab his assailant by one shoulder, bracing him before slamming his right fist straight into the stranger's stomach. Afterwards, Clive pulled back, horrified at what he had done, _again_.

Tony made a loud hacking sound, choking out a small spattering of crimson fluid that pattered on the clean floors. The young man clutched his stomach for a few seconds and keeled over into Clive's arms, lost in a dead faint, drops of blood from an internal rupture dribbling down his chin. The sniper sighed and dragged the man into the cabin room, laying him on one of the long benches reserved for the non-existent passengers of the train. Tony's head tilted to one side, and vaguely reminded Clive of Travis, the first man he had killed. He wasn't, Clive hadn't, did he?

He checked Tony's pulse. Thank god, the boy was still very much alive. Clive hit himself softly in the face a couple of times, imitating a motion that Gallows used sometimes. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" He cursed, "I should have… I should have been more careful!" That was it, he had to stay away from all humans, at all times. But how? He wasn't going to stay on this train, for sure.

Clive looked to the window, the land flying by as the train sped on. He had an idea. Being extra careful not to fall, he climbed out the window and clung to the side of the train, using all the strength he had to vault himself up onto the flat grey roof, the fierce momentum of the train blowing strong insistent gusts, threatening to knock him clear off. Smiling ironically, he could not be worried, his partially metallic body would not desist against these winds.

No humans, nobody he could harm. This place suited Clive just fine. He sat down and watched the scenery around him, pulling on his mighty gloves, because the monsters in the canyon would no doubt want to make a good meal out of him. The only thing Clive could do now was wait.

On the furthest point of the horizon, Clive saw a large blot that not even he could make out ascend and hover briefly, then blasting off and out of sight, leaving a trail of smoke in the sky. "Lombardia," He said, blocking out the sun from his vision with a hand, "Catherine and Virginia, I know you can find your paths…"

No longer midday, the sun had begun to descend, gradually falling from it's graces. Clive watched it with foreboding.

"I know when the time comes… you can pull the trigger."


	25. Lightning Blade In The Blue Sky

To help the humans inside relax, Lombardia assured Jet that she was more than capable of flying to Baskar without manual aid and switched herself to auto-pilot, streamlined body tearing through the white puffy clouds and ripping them asunder.

As for the dragoons inside, they had vacated their seats of control, sitting on their knees in a close ring on the floor, alleviating basic travelling boredom by playing cards, using the old deck Catherine had found in Clive's inventory. They played poker, small piles of gella coins spread around in the circle, gathered by each individual player. For the moment, Jet was in the lead, the young drifter sporting a completely perfect poker face and using it to his fullest ability. He was competing for _gella, _and that meant Jet would not allow himself to lose. Virginia was playing conservatively, making small wins and taking small losses, while Gallows was the sad underdog, his pile of gella quickly disappearing as Lady Luck turned him away.

Catherine went over the five cards she held, her hands had been decent but not overly spectacular, but the stakes this time were high, and the heap of gella in the circle was large. She was not a really competitive person, but it would be fun to make a big win. Shifting the cards around so they were sorted into a coherent order, she thought out her next strategic course of action.

What the others did not know what that Catherine was unashamedly cheating.

Actually, it was Clive's fault, the deck of cards they were using showed her exactly what was in the other three drifter's hands, marked precisely by the sniper so Catherine could not overlook the signs. Along the right and left-hand side of each card, on the thin white border, each card had a series of ink spots dotted down the frame, numbered one to fourteen, ace to king. Only someone familiar with the cheat could decipher the secret code, and Catherine was well acquainted with the method, Clive used to shill the rich and ignorant in Little Twister as a kid. Luckily, the other players in the circle had not noticed the differences between the cards, a coy smile planted on her pretty face, Virginia's gang was a little too trusting and ignorant sometimes.

She analysed Jet's hand, three cards had nine dots each, a three-of-a-kind, while another had thirteen, a queen card. The other was filler and Jet drew it out, aiming for a full house. Disappointment flickered behind his eyes as he received a card that was no better than the first, well, it didn't matter, he still had a trey of nine's backing him, but he also needed to be careful. Virginia had a pair of aces and nothing else, she looked expectantly at Jet, trying to break past his effective façade. None of the dots matched up on Gallows's cards, even after he had drawn a second time, he had a worthless garbage hand. The trouble lay with Jet, she had to do better than three nines to win.

Two kings and several unrelated number cards were huddled in her hand, if she could just get a hold of another king, then victory could be hers. Catherine rejected the three cards she did not need and surveyed the draw pile, the first one on the top was a useless six, but she drew it anyway, along with a ten that came right after. Things did not look good, she may have to fold on this specific game, but then her thoughts changed and her poker face had to hold back a deepening of her smile, the last card was the royal king of hearts, fourteen ink dots strong.

"I fold." Gallows sighed, throwing his cards, face down, on the white plastic floor. He glared at Jet disapprovingly, he could have sworn that the boy was cheating, his winning streak was _too _uncanny. Virginia considered her options carefully and decided to risk her hand, adding six more coins to the pile. Catherine, confident that she would win, as long as Clive's cheat held, put her contribution into the pile, alongside Jet.

**__**

It is apparent that what thou art doing is unjust. The machine they were riding in pointed out, speaking only to her. Catherine almost jumped at the sudden violation of the dragon's voice in her mind, blanking out her thoughts for a few seconds.__

Lombardia, it is only a game. No harm can come of it. Catherine reasoned, answering the telepathic voice with thoughts of her own. _Besides, this is how my husband used to play, and it is comforting to see a familiar gathering again. I am no thief, the money I take I will not keep.****_

A familiar memory? Lombardia wondered, **_Loss does sendest one back to fonder times, and well-known faces. I understand._** Human psychology fascinated the dragon, she could frequently see memories, but usually made no sense of them. **_Do what thou wilt, I shall not interfere._**

Humans are more complicated then you might choose to think, Lombardia. Catherine heard the dragon chuckle in her mind before leaving it's vicinity, but she could still sense her eyes watching over her. She tried to ignore it, focussing back on the game at hand. It was time they threw down their cards, determining the victor. Victory could be chalked up to the tiny dots on the cardboard, had her estimations and assumption been correct?

Virginia, a pair of aces. Jet, a trey of nines. Clive had been absolutely correct, even after all these years his childish cheat had still managed to become useful. With a humble face, she displayed her trinity of kings and pushed the pile of money over to her side of the circle, Jet watched the money get away from him like a disgruntled hawk, a muscle near his eyes ticking slightly.

"Well, it does look like I wo-"

The floor tilted dramatically, evasive aerial manoeuvres put into implementation. Lombardia audibly roared, alerting her passengers to the coming of an assault. In the corner between the wall and the floor, Gallows slid to rest in the nook, surprised at the sudden shift between gravity and balance. Jet landed soundly on top of him, knocking the wind out of the Baskar, not expecting Virginia to fall on top of _him_, which she certainly did, with Catherine being relatively fine on top. It was a four person pile up, a shower of coins and cardboard raining around them.

**__**

Thou shouldst return to thy stations, They heard Lombardia announce, **_Methinks danger hast come to accompany thee._**

"Yeah, I kinda guessed that, 'Bardi." Gallows groaned, the weight of the three people pressing into his stomach. Jet squirmed out of the human sandwich and made for the seat of control, hastily turning the screen back on. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek when he saw the 'company' Lombardia had spoken about.

"Damn, don't those fuckers ever give up?" He cursed, a thin metal disc pacing the dragon with ease, bright red lights flashing all over the hull. A UFO scout ship. From small portholes along the edge of the vessel, pulsing yellow eyes peered out, an alien intelligence. It required a bit of a struggle, but Gallows managed to pull himself out from under the two women, (Something he never would have done had the situation and people been different) helping everyone else back into their seats, a hard task because the floor was more than halfway vertical.

"Right side up!" Virginia ordered, gravity pushing her to one side, "You're making us dizzy!"

**__**

In due time! She growled, another tilt in the floor making everything _completely_ vertical. The air became charged with electricity, a tension like before a fierce electrical storm. The room heated up as a hyperion blaster beam grazed Lombardia's underbelly, she had moved just enough to evade a direct hit. The attack over, she rolled herself back to a more comfortable state of flight, the bridge turning the correct side up again inside her. Catherine gripped the white control orbs tightly, they were under attack, and she didn't know what to do.

"Battle stations!" Jet hollered, "Lombardia! Open the missile silos! Blast that thing out of the sky!" His orders set off a low rumble underneath the soles of their shoes, the dragon expelling steam as the huge canisters were opened at her sides, a reloading process with bullets as large as humans themselves, the deadliest type of ARM imaginable.

**__**

Awaiting command.

"Fire!" Yelled Virginia, pointing ahead with a finger.

"Ditto!" Jet agreed, calculating and judging which would be the best place to strike.

"Then reload and ram into it! Pulverise!" Gallows crowed, smacking his fist into his hand. Catherine just went silent, skipping over any help she could offer. They all had it under control, she would just foul it up. Everything rocked as the missiles were fired, the UFO reeled from the perfectly aimed shot, smoke pouring from a hole pounded into it's hull. It lost altitude and outward stability, wobbling like a spinning top rolling to it's end. A deep and ambient thunderous sound was Lombardia slowly chortling, amused at all the wanton destruction. Acting on the last two commands, another volley of missiles were fired, easily aimed at the already smoking structural damage.

Fire flooded out of the windows of the ship, blasting the Plexiglas it was composed of clear away and showing the insides of the UFO wreathed in red and orange flame. The last assault, Gallows manually steered Lombardia a great distance away, up as high as she could go, blotting out the glare of the sun for a second, looping around in the air and slamming straight into the ship on the return journey. A reverberating crunch sounded as degraded metal shattered and fell out of the heavens, landing with a wet slurp into the thinning quicksand seas.

"How's _that_ for firepower!" Gallows exclaimed, giving Virginia a thumbs-up. "Oh yeah, I rock!"

"Lombardia!" Virginia yelled, totally ignoring Gallows, "Are you hurt?"

If it were possible, Virginia could have sworn she saw Lombardia smile in her mind. **_I am hale and perfectly unharmed._**

She may have been the only one who noticed it, but Catherine felt an irregular vibration through the plastic she was seated upon, like something had hit the outer hull of the dragon. But she hadn't felt it with her body, more with her mind. A dragoon's telepathy, maybe? Catherine hopped out of her chair, immediately grabbing her gun. Jet looked at her strangely. "Where you goin'?" He asked.

"Just to take a look around our vessel, I have not yet seen all of this amazing machine." She replied, only giving him the half-truth. "I will be back very soon, don't worry." Jet's lavender eyes conveyed confusion to Catherine's abrupt exodus of the control room, but then he just snorted and went back to manual navigation, they were getting closer to Baskar Colony and he had to prepare a touchdown.

A white tubular hallway near the navigational apparatus led Catherine down to a place that seemed to go deeper into the body of the dragon, but closer to the armoured skin and defensive plates. _I heard a thump, Lombardia. Is everything alright?****_

Not particularly. I have incurred… a stowaway.

"Show me an exit and I will eradicate him for you." She said, loading her ARM. Her assumption had been correct. Yes, Catherine should learn to trust her instincts more, they were proving to be an invaluable resource on her long-overdue drifting adventure. From the plastic wall, the strange substance Lombardia was composed of melted away to form an opening in her artificial cuirass, just large enough for Catherine to crawl through. Clouds peeped at her from the other end, outside of the porthole there was nothing but the clear blue sky. Her grip on the Gungnir automatically tensed, if she fell through, she would fall splat in the sea with the aliens her team had just slain.

__

Be strong. You have faced worse dangers.

Catherine fit her right arm in first, bearing the long rifle that would have gotten stuck if she didn't hold the weapon completely vertically. Using the strap like a piece of restraining equipment, she unhooked one end and wrapped the material around her wrist and made a simple knot, so she stood no possibility of losing the ARM as she did this. Catherine hooked both feet to the edge of the tunnel and pushed herself out of the porthole, hair quickly fluttering around like crazy in the turbulent air.

__

Whatever you do, don't look down…

She looked down, clamping a hand to her mouth to prevent her breathless gasp, remembering she had a slight phobia of heights. Catherine was _very_ high up and frightened terribly of the great distance between herself and the land underneath. The cliffs below looked like layers of a great green cake, zooming over them at dizzying speeds. Yes, she was getting seriously dizzy, how could she stop this ride?

Cloaked by the whooshing winds, Catherine heard gibbering behind her, a muttering from a tongue she did not understand. It was like thousands of voices spoke to her simultaneously, a stream of communication squeezing to be fit into her brain all at once. She cried out and grabbed at her head, overwhelmed by the information. One grey eye opened slowly and she turned around, meeting her assailant through all the utterances echoing in her mind.

This was one of the golden-eyed beings she had glimpsed staring at her from their darkened portholes, a round black head giving contrast to the luminous shining twin orbs of it's eyes. It wore a big blue exoskeleton around it's torso, with lanky white legs sticking out from the armour. An _alien_, a malevolent one, creeping chaos.

The lady gunner had enough sense to duck back into the tunnel as the creature realized it was spotted, a beam of colourless energy flying over her head and striking Lombardia ineffectually. There was no question of it's alignment now, it was definitely against her, a survivor of the alien ship that had attacked them.

__

I am far too weak to hope for victory against such a creature, it would be an impossible venture…

****

Think back to the card game, tiny human, Lombardia instructed, still offering her help, **_Such tactics could be employed here with similar effects._**

"Lombardia..." Catherine whispered, slowly getting the gist of what the dragon meant, "I need not destroy the creature, merely render it unable to harm anyone, get rid of it, as it were. Like the cards, I can forge a loophole and bend the rules in my favor…" Wow, Lombardia was much wiser than Catherine had expected. "I must use what I have, my gun, a precarious surface, and the earth below." A grin that looked almost evil expanded across her face. She didn't have to shoot a monster to kill it.

Catherine flicked out the Gungnir's bolt, readying the weapon. She only had a few seconds to aim again before the alien could retaliate. It made her feel like a gopher, but the small hole she was crammed in could save her life. With just enough room, she turned herself around, counting to three, freezing her shaking hands and popping out of the hiding place again, ignoring the altitude that bombarded her with messages telling her she would fall.

__

The best spot to attack… There! The edge of it's exoskeleton!

The rifle bullet merely ricocheted off the armour and left not even a worthwhile scratch, but that was not what Catherine was counting on, the sheer force of the bullet striking the metal knocked the alien incredibly off-balance. It spun it's arms around to find it's centre of gravity, but uttered a high-pitched screech as Catherine turned the ARM upside down and hit it with the heavy butt, beating it clear off the dragon's hide. Creeping chaos shrunk to a little mote as it fell onto a rugged cliff side, too far away to discern it's ultimate fate. One could still have a pretty good idea, though. Catherine sighed with relief, the target was neutralized, her friends were safe.

**__**

I thank thee for thine help, now I do not regret your admittance into my body. Lombardia rumbled as Catherine wriggled back onto the tunnel inside her, resolving to _never_ go out there again. She unwound the strap from her wrist and fixed it back where it was supposed to be, walking with a happy spring in her step back to the control room. It was most likely the others didn't even know about what she had accomplished.

And they didn't, which made Catherine feel even better, in her perception, acts of valor were best kept secret, being humble was a good thing. Also, she didn't want to brag. As she settled back into her control chair, she felt a faint sensation of descent, Jet was landing them all back on the inviting ground. Filgaia never looked so good.

Had the creeping chaos been overlooked on Catherine's part, they would have instantly been attacked as soon as they exited the dragon, but the woman's resourcefulness paid off and they could head for Baskar without apprehension, the tribal village visible in the distance. Baskar, the town of Guardian devotees. Would they all be like Gallows, a hulking representative of his tribe? No, the concept of so many Gallows's seemed like an impossible one, and the Baskar faith was acknowledged to be a very serious one, this was a place Catherine found herself eager to visit, because according to Virginia, the answers about Clive's … change could be found here.

Catherine was more than determined to find out.

xxx

The pure clean water in the pot rippled around the confines of it's prison, held firmly between two hands by a youth of the Baskar priesthood, long tawny brown plait moving with his body as he cautiously brought it to the fire, taking small and steady steps, allowing no spillage to be produced. Shane meticulously went down the stone steps in his cozy house, waiting for one second on each step so the water in the pot could regulate it's movements. He had only just cleaned the entire house, from top to bottom, he didn't want to have it drenched with water so close to having finished his lot of chores for the day. The youth thought something warm to eat would be nice, so he brought the base ingredients for stew out, hung in a dried-grass satchel hung over one elbow, generating a little discomfort and uncertainty as he handled the pot.

He had bamboo shoots, mushrooms, potatoes, a small fish he had caught in the newly created oceans, his first fishing trip, a few lovely brown boiled eggs, plus some onions, carrots and a golden ear of corn. Shane would be eating fancy tonight. The youth smiled in anticipation, he was a good cook, but he still could not compare to his older brother, whose great recipes had been one of the greatest things he had missed while Gallows was away. In any case, Shane knew the food would be all his, until his grandmother came home for tea, at least. He passed the opened door of his house, licking his lips and not expecting the incident that was about to befall him.

"Hey, I'm back! Let the party begi- aah!"

"Big broth- eeeaggh!"

Gallows bowled headfirst into the house, over two hundred pounds of Baskar and muscle, a stupid grin on his face and a carefree tone in his voice. It was so great to be home, seeing all the people he recognized again and a little brother the priest missed so much. Gallows had virtually flown through the town, leaving the rest of his companions left in his wake of dust. Thankfully, Gallows had remembered the spears planted near his house and was able to dodge them and the embarrassment an impact would have caused, but fate was merely toying with his soul, reserving for him an even greater indignity.

As both Baskars passed and entered through the front door at the same time, they were met with a full-on collision, slamming chest against chest, pot of sacred and precious water knocked up and flung into the air above them. It showered water everywhere before making a sound landing on Gallows's head, squashing his younger brother to the ground. 

Sliding his hand under the iron pot to peel away the white lock of hair that was stuck to his forehead, Gallows found interest in the change of his voice when surrounded by a thick layer of metal, bouncing off the circular chamber. "Well," He echoed, seeing nothing but iron because the pot was blocking all vision, "It was a good thing you weren't boiling stuff, or I woulda' lost my face."

"Welcome home, big Brother." Shane replied, flattened by the larger priest and tapping the stone floor with his fingers. Gallows had been home for three seconds and he had already managed to cause some trouble. Annoying but priceless, that was what he was. He breathed in more oxygen as Gallows crawled off his back, the ability to breathe again coming back to his options. Shane wrung water out of his plait, he wished he still had his dream vision, maybe he could have foreseen this coming.

Gallows continued to wear the pot on his head, folding his arms seriously, but anyone with half a brain could tell he was grinning like a doofus under the makeshift helmet. "Does this really suit me?" He asked, banging on the container with his knuckles and making a clashing sound, "It's a little tight, but I think it's in season right now. Do you have it in pink?"

"You really are losing your wits, brother," Shane said, removing the pot and showing Gallows's stupid smirk to the world. "Soon I guess there will be nothing left." He looked into the empty container, he'd have to make another trip to the well before he could continue with his stew.

"You're implyin' he actually _had_ some in the first place?" Jet questioned Shane as he walked into the house, skirting around the puddle on the floor, two dripping Baskars standing right in the middle of it. Virginia sidled up beside him, repressing the laugh that threatened to leap out of her throat at seeing Gallows bedraggled like a wet dog.

"Guess what?" Gallows asked the pillar of Filgaia, "Company's here! What we need is food, some food, and maybe a little more food! Oh, and with food on the side!" He declared, flapping the small folds of his jacket so the water could be aired out. A blanket was passed to him from behind, thrown over his broad shoulders. Catherine liberated two from the beds up the stairs, handing them out to the brothers before they could catch a chill. They dried themselves with the cloth, Gallows rubbed his hair over and it went fluffy, poofing out like an afro gone horribly wrong. His face fell to a neutral status as Virginia burst out laughing with Catherine giggling softly to accompany her, even Jet cracked a small smile.

"I was going to make stew. Wait for a while and I'll feed you all." Shane explained, glad for the blanket Catherine had given him. He had never been aquatinted with her before, but she seemed to be a very nice woman. When she stepped forward, Shane raised an eyebrow, she had gone completely serious in a matter of seconds.

"We can eat later," She said, looking at Virginia, "This team came here for a reason, and it must be known. Virginia? Gallows?" Catherine stood back, awaiting enlightenment from the two drifters.

"Yeah!" Gallows proclaimed, "I can't believe I forgot! Heh, sorry. Shane, I wanna know, where the heck did Granny go?" He couldn't hear any raving or nagging, meaning Halle must be far away from this house. He really would have liked this blessing, but not on the day when he needed her the most.

"Grandmother went to pay a visit to the Southern Sanctuary. She mentioned something about an unusual amount of activity there, and the need for a placation. Don't worry, she said she'd be back in a little while." Shane held the pot out to Gallows, empty and useless, for now. "Um, big Brother? Could you do me a little favor? I'm out of water…"

"'Course!" He grinned, holding both hands over the pot and utilizing his token medium, the Aqua Wisp. A blue glow spread down his arms and reached the peak of power under his palms, a quiet bubbling of water forming at the bottom of the pot. Gallows hummed a little to himself as the spell increased in intensity, Shane felt the container getting heavier with volume, the conjured liquid swirling around as clear as purified crystal. Only a few inches away from the rim of the pot, the spell fizzled out and the water level stabilized, saving Shane an errand he didn't really want to do all over again. With reverence, the youth walked over to the fire that never seemed to go out, and strung it above the flames by a chain and a small frame. In a few minutes the water would boil, and he could prepare the stew.

"Thank you." Shane bowed, a motion that was bred into his manner by years of acting as a pillar, he could not help but use it on everyone who was close, even his own brother. The Baskar dropped his vegetable bag beside the hearth, accomplishing his final chore in a way he had not expected. "I hope you all like fish, does anybody here like fish?"

"Shane," Gallows made a face that showed that other, more important matters were at hand. A face he rarely used. "Until Granny gets back, could you show us the totem room? Please?" The younger Baskar knew more about these things than he did, though he had a rudimentary knowledge of the subject, Shane was better suited for an explanation.

"Totem room?" Virginia wondered, "What's that?"

"With pleasure." Shane answered, secretly wondering why Gallows was so interested about _that_ after all the moaning he had done during his studies about how much he hated it. Something was up. When Gallows asked for knowledge, then something nearby needed to be worried about. The other drifters looked concerned too, especially the one he did not recognize. "Please, follow me."

Virginia did not get her question answered, but was lead up the stairs to the area where fours beds were arranged for the occupants of the house. Well, she would find out soon enough. Shane looked at each person individually, as if judging whether or not they were worthy to see this 'Totem Room'. The youth moved to the last bed, tucked away at the back of the house, a hanging tapestry near it's foot, simplistic design both appealing and tasteful. Shane brushed the fabric away, showing the secret of the Caradine household.

Revealed in the light flooding through the small windows and the transient firelight, a hidden door behind the wall scroll unveiled a flight of carved stone stairs, leading downward into a shadowy darkened corridor. No lights flickered inside, except for one Gallows had procured using their indoor fire and an unlit torch from the walls.

"I ask you to be very quiet as we go down here," Shane warned the fascinated drifters, "From this point onwards, the building you are in can be regarded as a holy shrine." He took the torch from Gallows's hands and led the way, hearing the extended echoes of reinforced drifter boots on cold hard rock. He wasn't really supposed to allow people in here without a fully fledged priest accompanying them, but he and Gallows were here, both of them put together filled that requirement.

"What's the totem room?" Virginia asked again, both hands to the sides of the corridor as she descended, without the torchlight, she would be in total blackness. Something flicked her in the face, she guessed it was a cobweb, but when she grabbed it, the material of Jet's bandanna was felt between her fingers. Smiling in the shadow, she held onto it instead, as long as she could hardly be seen, for she trusted it more than the unfamiliar walls around her.

"Prolly an answer," Gallows presumed, "Or maybe more questions, who knows? Anyways, It might be a help 'till Granny gets back."

__

Might? Probably? Who knows? Why do I feel as if I walk around in the dark? Catherine thought glumly, of everyone in the team, she still had no idea about what was going on. Danger? Horror? All she knew was, Clive looked so scared as he walked out of the town at noontime, like the devil himself was riding on his shoulder, whispering mind-numbing commands into his ear.

She was not too far away from the truth.


	26. Falling, Cherry Blossoms, And Lonely Vis...

The truth was closed to him, and so were his eyes, framed by a thin plating of glass and wire that hung upon the bridge of his nose. He was sleeping within a dream, only vaguely aware of the world that rushed past his consciousness, along streams of dust and falling feathers, hands resting contentedly by his sides and breathing deep. An insistent wind whipped his hair around and brushed against his cheek, Clive stirred, opening his eyes for the first time in this reality. He looked into the sky, and that's all there was, sky.

__

What… is this?

No support held him in place, Clive was falling. He panicked on the inside, for his descent was a headfirst one, but when he sent frantic messages to his limbs to make them do _anything _to remedy his predicament, that same numbing feeling passed over his body as a warning, he was paralysed again. With the paralysis came another welcoming feeling, gently whispering in his ear reassuring words that he would be perfectly safe, like a soothing shot of morphine, Clive relaxed and smiled. He would be okay.

__

I know this. This… feeling of falling. Familiar…

He felt no air resistance whatsoever, like the world he existed in was not a true manifestation of reality, a dream world. But, this world was _real_, he could tell, a sixth sense told him so. Clive's dirty coat billowed out behind him as he fell, and his fingers twitched, he could scarcely believe how calm he felt, it was not real, but at the same time, it was. Time did not even pass, it was frozen, and so was he, though the world still moved in perfect motion, time did not want to exist. A feather blew past his eye, and Clive inspected it with perfect precision, he could see everything, all at once. Light grey and specked with charcoal tones, it must have belonged to one of the birds who flew on high, without a care in the world, but the creature was not here now, he was all alone.

__

This feels good…I cannot feel any hurt, nothing, I cannot sense anything…

I am…warm. The air is warm… and soft…

Like the feathers…

But I do not desire it to be this way. Please, make it stop… I do not belong here…

Finding power over his movements once more, Clive tilted his head back and looked down, amazed at what he saw. Though it felt like he was falling through an endless expanse of air, he _could_ see the ground above his head, and he held a hand to his face to keep his glasses from slipping off. Falling was not an adequate word to describe his dilemma, it was more like he was floating downward, held and pushed by an intangible force. It seemed that he was flying upside-down, towards the ground, without any wings or control.

__

How did I chance upon this world? …Everything feels like it is in reverse…I do not remember… please don't make me remember…I don't want to remember…

Every single one of his limbs felt wispy and not really there, a similar sensation to when he utilized the teleport orb, but it did not vanish with time and he remained like that, barely composed of any physical matter at all. Physical matter, that was it! Clive felt like a ghost. He hated living to experience it, he hated everything, so alone, so lost, _nobody_ was left to give him comfort; he did not deserve it. Clive gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, he hated himself so much, it was almost painful. In this strange transition between heaven and earth, he felt all of these burning reminders, and became guilty of doing so in an environment that did not permit it. It was a state of passage, he was here, but at the same time, not anywhere. But still, he fell, floating out of the sky.

__

I do not deserve to have wings and fly…The past has chained me again…

My wings are gone…

…Is that why I am falling?

Clive changed his centre of gravity when the ground became close enough to set his feet on, he flipped himself over and became slightly nauseous as the earth he stood upon felt cold and uninviting, yet bristly as his bare fingers entwined with stiff blades of grass, holding him down. At that precise moment, Clive sensed that something important had just ended, a dream that he had not decided to begin. The warm and safe secure hold on his mind went away without warning, forcing within him a cramping response of withdrawal, peace had decided to pack up and move away. Lacking transition, a new dream began, without even a shift of space or time.

His body felt heavy and light all at once, the best way to describe it would be as if his soul was not inserted into the body, but hovering only a few feet away, manipulating the vessel by remote control. A trickle of blood leaked out of his nose, the change in altitude had given him a nosebleed, but when he raised a hand to wipe the fluid away, the smear it left on his hand was not an oily black one, it was a deep dark red. Human blood.

This scared him even more so than if demon blood had decided to flow out of his veins. He knew that it would already happen, but if he was human again, why in the world did he feel so different, so left out of everything that still bore purity in this world? Clive did not even have an explanation on _why_ he was human again in the first place. He would be happy, if he didn't feel so vague and lost inside.

He tried to stand up, but his legs were imitating jelly, holding him firmly to where he knelt, a sort of pastoral scene, rolling green hills and a wide blue sky dappled with clouds, the place where he had fallen from. Clive looked up, he could see nothing, this strange unusual world had trapped him to it's confines and would not let go. Introspectively, a flimsy light object sailed down and nestled itself snugly into Clive's partially spiky hair, ensnaring and fluttering frailly in the delicate breeze. Curious, the sniper plucked it from the home it had made, looking down at the article and wondering why no feelings wished to come forth.

It was that same feather again, it had followed his descent from the heavens and had chosen to remain nearby. Why? Who would want to be around _him?_ Who cared for the hideous beast he had become? No, this must be some kind of a joke. Nobody loved him at all. Clive enclosed his fingers around the feather and heard the quiet snap as it broke in his fist, so soft and so fragile. However, when he opened his hand again, nothing was there.

__

I am supposed to protect somebody, but I do not remember who… A girl, a little girl… Who? I can't… recall her name…

"My aim in life is to complete my mission, to hunt for the perfect prey. I have no inclinations or interests in any other subject, my mission is my _purpose_. A puerile child holds no meaning, only another soul to be hacked away and devoured. I feel neither guilt nor remorse." Clive said in a dismal monotone, not knowing from what mind those words came from, but he had heard those utterances before, so many times, in his own head. All control of his body departed, and he stood up under somebody else's volition.

__

Who says these words?! They are not my own! I would **never** harm a child, never!

Clive smiled. "When the demon race holds dominion over this harmonious planet, I shall at last find a replacement for Hiades and Terra, I will find a home, and it will be here, built with the corpses of both mother _and_ child! Humanity cannot stop me from quenching my loneliness, my purpose shall always be to fight!" He placed a fist against his chest and his smile became a sadistically amused smirk. "Little human inside my soul, does this frighten you? Yes, it does, I can feel your fear…"

__

What? … He can… sense me?

His nosebleed worsened a little, and Clive held his hand up to stop the flow, dark red eyes the same vibrant hue as the blood that escaped from his body. "Of course I can," He said condescendingly, like he was explaining something to a fool, "I know all about you, Clive Winslett. I have so for some time now, more than you could ever imagine or dread. But you have never noticed me, have you? Never, not once…" Carelessly, Clive removed the support of his legs and plopped down on the grassy knoll he occupied, looking gladdened and congenial. "But you nearly got there a few times, human, you nearly reached me, in your heart. There were several times when you were just a footstep away, in the most scorching heat of melee battle, I could perceive you trying to unleash that suppressed power, and you almost did, almost."

__

Then, you must know… What is… happening to me?

Clive slitted his eyes and leant forward, speaking with the weak voice inside his head. From the cross-legged position he sat in, a drop of blood strayed from the path down his hand, and rolled off the side, a little red bead falling in midair onto the small grassy gap between his folded legs. Clive began to chuckle silently, his shoulders heaving with suppressed laughter. His un-bloodied hand opened wide as an exceptionally powerful wind blew across the knoll, fragments of the broken feather scattering in the air and leaving his grace. "You are beginning to remember," He said whimsically, tilting his head down and looking at the red human blood on his hand. "You can not remain in limbo forever, Clive."

__

Lim…bo…?

As the singular bead of blood hit the verdant turf that the sniper reclined on, the ground seemed to ripple like tiny waves in a pool, texture changing and shifting to another structure. Everything darkened, the sky, aspects of scope and distance, certain dimensions were stolen away and lost forever. His body was forced to stand up again, and he languidly folded his arms across his chest, looking bored at the lack of surroundings and background. Of course, inside the shell, the _real_ Clive was frightened out of his mind, he was being pulled around like a puppet on strings, but then, who was the puppet master?

His foot shifted slightly and he heard the sound of liquid swirl around his boots. Obligingly, the other being manipulating his body made him glance downward, to watch a sea of red that stretched across the ground for as far as his eyes could see. Clive was standing in the center of an endless region coated with a thin film of blood, barely a centimeter thick, it rippled and created vast rings in the fluid every time Clive made a move. The rest of this dimension was nothing but darkness.

He became a little upset inwardly at the blood that was seeping into the ends of his long trench coat, dying the belt around the bottom a stained black. Also, the colour of his boots were a pale moccasin and any spillage would ruin them forever. Timidly, he moved a few steps forward, only the light splashing of blood producing any sound. Clive cleaned away all the blood on his face and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, narrowing his eyes a little bit. He was not really used to wearing glasses of any sort, they were bothering him.

"Well, little human warrior," He boomed, voice echoing in the confined dimension, off walls neither of them could see, "Let us see if you can remember this memory, it is very special, at least to me." He tapped his right temple as if he was trying to knock Clive into listening to him. "Maybe you will see things differently from another's perspective."

__

I do not **want** another's perspective! I am me! Not you!

A soft wind picked up from somewhere unknown, ruffling Clive's green hair and coat, creating minuscule waves that slopped against his boots and blew the liquid away. His hand went to move behind his ear, holding firm the frame of his glasses and looking to the west. Something was floating with the wind, tiny things, like little leaf-shaped pieces of silk, coloured a rosy pink. They streamed past his face and traveled with the waves, bringing a nostalgic scent with them, one that Clive had never smelt before, but recognized instantly.

Cherry blossoms.

The dimension faded, and Clive went with it.

xxx

Cherry blossoms and starlight, a clearing in some long forgotten forest, ages ago, this was the world he sat in once again, the old world, ancient Filgaia. The steady and musical sound of water cascading down a clear sparkling stream served as background to the notable hum of cicadas, fairly quiet, but enough to make the world seem less lonesome. The trees were a vibrant dark green, nearly emerald, strong leaves able to catch the rare and valuable water that sometimes spilled from the heavens. But one, the greatest and strongest of them all, was a magical and vivacious pink colour, haphazardly releasing it's beautiful silken leafy spores, painting the wind with scent and hue. He sharpened his orihalcum boomerang on a dense and weathered stone underneath the tree, small sparks flying from the weapon as it's edge was honed to perfection. The evening was late and the sun would rise soon, but the armored figure neither needed nor wanted to sleep right now. He had more important things to do.

By his side nestled the great she-wolf of legend, Luceid, the Guardian of desire. Soft night breezes brushed her long grey fur as she held her head to the heavens, ear twitching to the annoying grating sounds the demon next to her was making. Boomerang stopped every thirty seconds or so to check the progress of his work, smiling at the favourable results.

Luceid spoke directly into his mind, the pronunciation of proper English was impossible in her natural form. The wolf's almond-shaped eyes blinked lazily in the warm spring night, sensitively nudging Boomerang's side with a long bushy tail. "**_Lady Harken has fallen, Boomerang, are you aware of that? She was such a strong fighter, yet, a singular human managed to bring her down…" _**A paw played sullenly with a blade of soft green grass, lupine claws blunted and hidden when not needed to fight. "**_And they say that the reason she allowed herself to perish was for love… She loved her murderer, with all her heart."_**

"Love is the wisdom of the fool, and the folly of the wise." Said Boomerang, showing hardened and informal contrite, "Harken was both wise _and_ a fool, but I do not fault her, for she never was and never would have been one of us, a true demon. The product of Alhazad's twisted experiments, as I recall." He shook his head, wisps of black hair falling across his face. His battle helmet was discarded for the night, he would not be fighting until tomorrow, at least.

**__**

"With Zed gone, that would only leave you, Alhazad and Zeikfried…" Luceid brushed the side of her muzzle against Boomerang's leg, radiating her concern for the bounty hunter. "**_Ka Dingel has risen, has it not? The tower to the ancient colonies in the sky, the plan of the demon knight continues…"_**

"And I am merely a step for it's desired fruition." Boomerang replied, refusing to look up from his weapon. He rubbed away a smudge of polishing wax from his cheek, and his ruby red eyes glittered amongst the dark skin tones of his face. "Zeikfried wishes to toss me away after my usefulness has ended. I need not a prophecy to predict his plan of events. Luceid, he has lost the semblance of his individuality, another soul festers in his mind. Mother's." His hand went to stroke the fur on Luceid's back, soft like velvet but twice as beautiful. "Total destruction is all she wants, and if Zeik succeeds, Filgaia will perish."

Luceid lowered her gaze, laying her head between her paws. "**_I do not wish for that to happen, _**She sighed,** _I did not contribute to the Guardian ray line because of two important reasons. For my continued survival within this desolate planet, and because I so foolishly fell in love with you, Boomerang. Though I fight on your side, I…did so on the intents of demonic colonisation, not destruction…"_**

"We are both fools," Boomerang agreed ruefully, scratching her behind the ear, "I should not have returned that love, yes, I do not want Filgaia lost as well. I want power, power to fight, and most of all, I want to discover what it is that removes loneliness from a lonely soul." He grabbed a low branch of the tree he was sitting under and got to his feet, armour restraining his movements and making a hushed metallic sound. Sighing under all the weight that he no longer needed to carry, he unlatched the buckles that held his armour in place and discarded the heavy metal next to his wolf companion. He was heavy enough without having all that extra discomfort. Boomerang crouched at the bubbling brook, submerging his sharpened weapon in the water to cool it down from all the friction endured. White steam rose from the water and dissolved into the atmosphere.

Cleansed in the stream, he pulled the weapon out again, rivulets of water running down his arm and dampening the loose cloth gi he usually wore under his armour. By looking hard at the surface of his weapon, he could see a tiny scratch, a blemish on his most treasured tool. It must have been that human knight who did it, or those long and rewarding sparring matches he had taken with the fledgling Zed, before his unaccountable disappearance. Boomerang had already presumed him dead. "What I want to know is…" He rubbed his finger over the scratch, feeling the imperfection and trying to flake it away with a nail. "I want to know what happiness is." 

Luceid got up from her place under the cherry tree, padding forwards a little bit, perplexed at the words that so uncharacteristically came from a demon. "**_Happiness?" _**She asked.

Testing his weapon, Boomerang threw his Saber Fang at the thick branch of a tree, satisfied when the limb was amputated swiftly and accurately, crashing to the ground and forcing some birds that were living there to fly away. "I am happy when I fight," Boomerang explained as he caught the blade on it's return trip with ease, despite the scratch, it still worked fine. "Fighting is the reason for my existence in this world, the reason why I was spawned for the purposes of war, by Mother, my mother." He strapped the boomerang to it's resting place behind his left shoulder, where it was meant to be. "I was happy fighting, I lived for the fight… It made me feel… free inside."

**__**

"You are speaking in past tense. Why? What is wrong? What has changed?" Luceid pointed out, worried.

"Lately, I find myself questioning that happiness, I do not know if it is real or not." He turned around, and Luceid was no longer in her natural form, but a silhouette basically resembling a human woman. If it were not for her strikingly colourful violet and pink hair, Boomerang could have mistaken her for a simple maiden walking down a busy street.

"Every mortal finds themselves pondering that problem every so often," Luceid told him, talking with her mouth now that her vocal chords were capable of forming coherent words, "You should not let it trouble you, Boomerang."

Boomerang crossed his arms. "No, don't misunderstand," He said, "I still find fulfilment in battle and conflict, don't get me wrong. It is the bi-product of that warlust which allows you to stay with me, Luceid. I do not want to lose that, or you." Cherry blossoms rained through the sky, one tickled Boomerang under his nose and he blew it away, trying to ignore the intrusions with stride.

Luceid traced a slightly protruding root from the overhanging tree with her bare feet, it lead straight up to Boomerang's side and she set her hand upon the crook of his elbow, the material he was wearing felt coarse and uncomfortable, but no irritation from it showed up on Boomerang's face, nothing at all. Usually, the metal demon was very expressive with his facial features, the supreme reason why Boomerang chose to hide himself behind a metal helmet. He felt Luceid's contact and smiled inwardly, loosening up a bit.

"The truth is," He continued, taking Luceid by the hand, but continuing to look straight ahead, "Ever since I have been charged to dispatch the humans that hinder our conquest, I can no longer look at myself and be happy anymore. My happiness is a farce, showing how lonely I really am."

He glanced down into the water of the stream, amongst the ripples and darkness caught in the reflection, he could see his own face, a little unfamiliar because he was used to seeing it covered by a mask. Boomerang supposed that to any other human female, he would look rather handsome, if nobody asked where he had come from and ignored the colour of his eyes and the tiny fangs in his jaw, he could pass for a human with a little effort.

"The humans who live here, the natives of Filgaia, they do not need to fight in order to win their happiness, they forge it from the sands of time and the dusts of despair. From that, they turn happiness into hope, and that hope into power. Limitless power…" He finally faced Luceid, taking both her slender hands with his dark brown ones. "I don't know what it is that transforms emotions into power, so tomorrow, I am going to find out."

"Ka Dingel… Zeikfried has given us orders already?" And she already knew what those orders would be. Destroy the humans, or at least stall them until their plans were completed. They had the powers of the three Guardian lords on their side, how could a singular demon bounty hunter hope to…

But this was Boomerang they were talking about. He could do anything, if he put his mind to it.

"Tomorrow, there shall be a death at the foot of Ka Dingel. The humans, or me. You do not have to come if you do not want to. There is no reason for both of us to feel pain." Luceid's hands tightened around his. Her bright red eyes had crystalline liquid beading at the corners, she was about to cry. "Like I said, Zeikfried is just waiting for a chance to eliminate me from his new world, I will play no part in his trickery, my role is at an end."

"You are saying…" Though she tried, Luceid could not finish. Boomerang met her gaze with steadfast eyes, did he already know his own fate? He slowly let go of her hands, an emotion that could be best described as regret present in his eyes. Doing something that Luceid would not have expected, he raised one hand and pointed to the sky, slightly off-centre from the north star and at a little cluster of milky mist in the heavens.

"Hiades, my home." He wistfully watched the stars pulse and send their light to the cosmos. Long ago, he could have looked from Terra and wondered exactly what the planet Filgaia would have been like. Well, he was well aware of it now. "I would have wished to go back there someday, if Mother had not destroyed it… The battles there were always fierce, I liked it."

"What was it like?" Luceid asked, following his finger up into the sky. She was the Guardian of only Filgaia, how the other worlds lived and thrived, she had no idea. Boomerang seemed like he wanted to say something, but only shrugged and checked his blade again, the faintest shade of red appearing on his cheeks. He didn't reply, dancing around the topic. Realising this, she turned it back to the original subject. "I am going with you tomorrow, you cannot stop me."

His finger slipped against the edge of the Saber Fang, it was still wet and he had forgotten this. The skin broke and blood slicked his hand, but if that was the worst he would have to suffer, then this planet was not worth fighting for. "Then you will follow me to Hell, most likely." He put his finger in his mouth, tasting the tang of oil and mercury on his tongue.

Luceid closed her eyes, two tears running down her cheeks. Sometimes, as a Guardian, she acted far too much like a human for her own good. Damn Raftina and her curse of love! Why in the world did she have to fall for a demon? Why?

"So be it." She said.

xxx

A bird's ceaseless cawing softly became a beacon that pulled Clive back to the world he was most comfortable with, perpetual motion reminding him that his _real_ body was sitting on the roof of a train, in a light trance state brought on by long-lasting boredom, or maybe something more. Wings flapped near his ear and a pair of talons bit into his coat sleeve, the quick and mild pain bringing Clive out of his reverie.

"That was… the most realistic daydream I have ever experienced…" He mumbled, swearing that he could still smell the cherry blossoms in the air. Clive recalled the first dream he had, the weird sensation of falling that seemed to hold no meaning for him, but meant more than anything else. It had felt warm and fuzzy, safe.

Then there was Boomerang, he thought with a sinking feeling, looking at the finger he had cut in his dream. His hand was much paler and did not have the tough calluses the demon Boomerang bore, but a miniscule flare of ghostly pain rose and fell in the span of a second, localised on the end of his index finger.

__

I really ought to pay more attention to myself, _I cannot afford to let Boomerang get control again…But I wonder, of all souls on this planet, why did he choose to occupy mine?_

Clive raised his arm, finally noticing the large black bird perched upon it, shadowy wings folded along a feathered back. The sunlight hitting the plumage made a shimmering of violet and green on the ebony surface, this bird was no simple fowl, it was a beautiful dark raven, a wanderer of the wastelands. "You are the one who woke me up… Good afternoon." Clive greeted, shifting his legs so the feeling could return, aware that inevitable pins and needles would soon follow.

The bird cawed again, hopping up his arm and onto his shoulder, Clive expected to feel a slight hurt from it because of his injury, but sadly remembered that the wound was gone and something far worse replaced it. Clive didn't want to think about it, not too much. So, he had found a friend, Clive felt a little better and gingerly patted the bird's wing, getting it's cold hard beak scraped fondly against one finger. This was not a wild animal, the raven was tame.

Unexpectedly, it stretched out with it's beak and grasped the frame holding Clive's glasses to his face, behind his ear, and tried to pull it away. In retaliation, Clive held the other side firmly with two fingers, a slight change in the rails and the train's direction making him slide a little to the right. They were in the canyon, that was easy to discern from the high cliffs enveloping the entire area, but it still would be some time before they would reach the station. He didn't mind, though he was in a desperate hurry, this brief period of relaxation made him quite patient. "Hey," Clive protested quietly to the bird, "I know your kind collects shiny things like these, but I still need my glasses, you cannot have them."

Seeming to understand his speech, the raven let go and looked at Clive inquisitively, flexing it's little claws on his coat. The drifter noticed something unusual around one of the bird's legs, clinching the speculation that the animal was a pet belonging to somebody else. His hand slowly moved to untie the pretty red ribbon, Clive saw it was binding a tiny piece of paper to the limb. "A carrier pigeo-"

Only a few centimetres from liberating the curious object, the raven realised what Clive was going to do and cawed out a warning, spreading wings wide and pushing off, embracing the blue sky and soaring off into the distance, leaving a scattering of black feathers behind.

"I feel I know that animal from somewhere…" Clive told himself out loud, impulsively holding a hand to his face. He subconsciously anticipated what would occur next and waited for it to happen. Liquid started to escape from his nose, the nosebleed from the dream manifesting itself in reality. He fumbled for a handkerchief and pressed it under the spillage, wondering where the bird had flown off to and how long it would take until he reached his destination.

And also, his little Kaitlyn.

"Ravendor," Clive growled with utmost venom, his mood taking a turn for the worse, "If you so much as harm a hair on her head, I will… I shall not hesitate to send you to the seventh inferno of purgatory, even if I must escort you there myself!" He cut a swath in the air for emphasis, allowing anger to rule his mind for a few ephemeral seconds.

__

Wait… Who do I sound like? I am beginning to sound more and more like Boomerang…

Not even his white handkerchief could hold all the blood that exited his body, the dark rich oil ran down his hand, much like in his dream, and Clive held back an upset snarl, momentarily showing the flash of vestigial dagger-like canines hidden in his mouth.


	27. Reunion

(A/N: There is Spanish in this chapter. If you don't understand a word of it, don't worry, it isn't really important stuff, and anything that _is_ important will be reiterated in English by the characters anyway. The plot thickens, and in a few chapters we shall get to see Ravendor's own personal view on things, (In which case you might need to keep some tissues handy) but not for a while. Still, enjoy!)

With a disappointed sigh, Kaitlyn understood the reason why Filgaia was called a wasteland. Honestly, she thought there was more to the world than just a dusty plateau of sand, surrounded by infallible mountains and cliffs. Where were the scary caverns? The ancient ruins? Long lost forests as far as the eye could see? Nothing here, just burning heat and the dried-up ground. Kaitlyn felt ripped-off, somehow.

And she was getting very tired, her small face was flushed red from heat and slight exhaustion. For every step Ravendor took, Kaitlyn had to take two littler ones, having trouble keeping up. Now her legs felt wobbly, she wanted to sit down and rest. Finally, she stopped, prompting Ravendor to also pause and halt the entire train of travellers behind them. Kaitlyn rubbed her sore knee, the old Band-Aid covering the scrape hardly blocked the pain. Ravendor let go of her hand and looked at the other two bandits, who were wondering why they had paused. Romero felt like he was going to collapse, he was very susceptible to heat because of his paleness and only ever liked to travel in the late afternoon. Ravendor really was a slave driver, the way he was making them march like this.

"Do you require a rest, Kaitlyn?" He asked soothingly, figuring that they were in no rush and had plenty of time to spare. Kaitlyn nodded, wiping her face with her hanky. "Very well," He said as he turned to the bandits, "Take a brief break, you have earned it." 

After ages worth of walking in the blistering heat, they were indescribably grateful for the stony quarry they were resting at, piles of solid rocks making a perfect area to sit down and relax. Kaitlyn caught her breath and sat next to Dario, taking back what she had thought about this boring canyon. A quarry would be an excellent place to explore! Big boulders pushed up against each other left holes and small tunnels that radiated intrigue, if Kaitlyn wasn't so tired, she would be investigating every nook and cranny, playing her favourite game of explorer.

Ravendor was lying down on a comfortable rock not very far away, watching the fluffy white clouds float by. Muttering inaudibly, he traced invisible figures with a finger, it looked like he was trying to find shapes in the clouds. "Kaitlyn, do you know that the very place you sit in right now used to be under the water?" He informed her casually after a minute, dark hair screening his bright green eyes.

"Under water?" She asked, blinking. Did such a large enough amount of water even exist? Kaitlyn had never seen the oceans or the seas before in her entire life, the concept of so much liquid in one place truly boggled her mind. Ravendor turned his head to her, smiling sincerely. He didn't look like he was pulling her leg or lying at all. He had the calm and nonchalant appearance her father wore when explaining things of interest, at that moment she could truly believe that Ravendor was her uncle, he and Clive looked so alike in demeanour, it wasn't funny.

"Indeed. I shall show you some evidence, if you want." He continued, removing what looked to be an ordinary old stone from a cavity on the inside of his jacket, roughly the size of the palm of his hand, the rock bearing a quality of abrasive sandstone. Ravendor turned it over in his hands, making visible a small lump in the rock, a dark brown coloured _thing_ embedded in the orange material. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the pebble over to the girl as she held her hands open. Kaitlyn's reflexes were quick and she caught it without any trouble.

The rock felt crumbly and feeble in structure, like she could crush it into sand if she had a harder substance nearby. But the object protruding from the sandy moorings was not made of the same material, as Kaitlyn looked closely, she made a disgusted face. The _thing_ looked like a large petrified cockroach. It was dead, obviously, but it made her feel all grossed-out inside. She became reluctant to touch the stone and set it carefully next to her, edging away from the ancient corpse. "What _is_ it?" She asked, sticking out her tongue at it.

"A _trilobite_," Ravendor elucidated convivially, "Or as I like to call them, antediluvian sea-cockroaches. They no longer exist, yet their fossils remain to illustrate their tumultuous past." He moved his arm and picked up the artifact with impromptu reverence, transferring it back to Kaitlyn's hands. She reluctantly took it again. "Quite valuable. I unearthed it from this quarry a short while ago, but you may keep it, I have no need for it."

"Is this _old_ stuff?" She questioned him, eyes shining from the thoughts that her father might like this, seeing he collected strange things for a living. She lightly scratched the rock and some granules of sand became caught under her fingernails, the fossil may have been old, but the rock itself was extremely weak and brittle. 

"Very old." He replied, going back to scanning the sky. It looked like, from the way his eyes wandered here and there, he was searching for something in the wide blue atmosphere. Clouds were gathering and slowly clumping themselves together, small at the moment, but threatening to increase in size as the day wore on. It seemed unlikely, but perhaps it may even rain tonight, an unheard of occurrence that only ever happened every blue moon. Ravendor's thoughts travelled ahead to the night, for the next two days, an excellent full moon would make journeying through the dark a sublimely pleasant one. The best time to travel, in his opinion.

Kaitlyn was able to stash the rock away in her pocket, it was just small enough to fit properly. It would make a nice souvenir for her very first adventure. "It sounds like you know a lot about old stuff!" She declared, full of intrigue for the man who was becoming more like a real uncle for every moment they spent together. "Do you look for old stuff too? Like my Daddy?"

A cloud passed over the sun for a short-lived moment, overshadowing everything beneath it. Ravendor sat up, crossing his legs and looking at his gloved right hand. Underneath the black leather, there was something that always reminded him of Clive, enough to make him feel like cutting of his own hand at times. This was one of those times. The bandit leader rarely took his gloves off, they blocked away such painful memories. "No, Kaitlyn," He answered softly, "I just have a bit of interest in everything. It is a healthy habit to form, it will make you wise to the ways of the wasteland."

Dario fanned away flies with his cowboy hat, the little nuisances escaping only for a few seconds before returning with twice the vigour. The bandit could never figure this out. The flies loved him, for some reason, despite the fact that he didn't smell any different to the other bandits living on the planet. Why did they single him out? One of the mysteries of the universe. Dario clenched his teeth and played a never-ending game of badminton with the winged insects, trusting Ravendor to watch Kaitlyn while his attention was diverted. 

Being brave, Kaitlyn procured her rock and touched the surface of the trilobite fossil, telling herself over and over again that the ugly cockroach was _dead. _It didn't feel like what she had expected a cockroach shell to be, slimy and shuddery, but more cold and hard, like stone. This wasn't a corpse, it was a petrified pebble. And it was hers, her first _real_ drifter artifact. "I wanna be a drifter someday, Uncle Ravendor! Do you think I can do it?" She looked at him expectantly for an answer.

"You have already taken the first step." Said Ravendor, close to conjuring nostalgia within himself. "The declaration and choice to be a drifter is sometimes the hardest step you need to take. You are a little young, mind you, so perhaps your flight may become a true one in the years ahead. That is for you to decide." Ages ago, another child had asked him practically the same question, but now he had grown up, wandering off on his own, fulfilling his dream. And this was his daughter, sitting right in front of him.

The time had flown far too fast.

"Err…" Mumbled Dario, still struggling with his little arthropod problem. "Anyone see where Romero went? I was kinda busy an'-" Ravendor glanced back up into the sky at his question, as if the answer floated up there. He saw nothing. Kaitlyn looked around the quarry. Dario was right, the blonde man had disappeared from everybody's view. There were rocks everywhere, so they could have easily hidden a person adept at discretion, say a ninja, but why on earth would Romero want to hide from _them_? It was a mystery.

"Come. Let us find him." Ravendor ordered. He'd be damned if he were to lose a man during a simple rest break. He was already thinking up a punishment for him once the ninja was found. He had many interlocking plans, and, he refrained from looking at the sky, knowing that he would see nothing, one of them was going wrong. Not to mention he was becoming reluctant to do away with Kaitlyn when the time seemed fit. A minor setback, but he was confident that his trigger finger would not freeze when endowed with his gun. Kaitlyn was a Winslett, she carried Clive's blood, that enough made Ravendor want to shoot her repeatedly, sadistically satisfying his need for revenge, until nothing but a bullet-riddled carcass remained.

Anybody with Clive's blood deserved to die. 

xxx

Romero looked around for a suitable place to lie down and expire, so exhausted that he was. The sun burnt like scalding acid into his skin and shelter from it's all-seeing eye was Romero's ultimate goal. The same to what Kaitlyn had noticed, Romero also discovered the network of tunnels shaded from the outside world and begged ingress to any god that wished to listen. He peered in with his only functioning eye, shadows thrown over his face. It was more like a mini-cave than a hole in the ground, uninhabited by the looks of it, and very inviting.

__

Geez, how can those guys **take** it? I don't tan, I burn up like a cinder…

Getting to his knees, Romero crawled into the small cave, instantly refreshed by the drop in external temperature. He decided that he liked quarries and would wait a bit until he heard the others call out his name and come looking for him. There was no way he was going to spend his rest break outside in the boiling heat. A spotted beetle crawled over his hand, tickling the ninja and annoying him. He balled his hand into a fist and crushed the insect, hearing it go 'splat' as it was smooshed beyond recognition. Romero wiped his dirtied hand on his trousers and set them in his lap, sniffing.

__

What's with that posh drifter and Dario? Heh, I don't even know why I signed up for this, or let that guy lead us… Still, he has a pretty bad rep, from what I hear, even worse than Janus, but shit! He looks like he should be livin' the high life with a bunch'a aristocrats, not slummin' around with us…

And that little kid they were dragging around, shouldn't they just shoot the brat and get it over with? The bounty for the Maxwell gang was a pretty high one, but Romero just didn't get the way Ravendor was working to acquire it. It was almost as if he was personally involved with this whole mess, or had a secretive reason to want those drifter outlaws hung. The ninja was not unfamiliar to hatred, he had lived with it for every single year of his life, and he could just barely see through Ravendor's polite charade to a person who was fuming with anger underneath.

He removed a few throwing stars from a compartment on his belt, seeing his slight reflection in the tempered stainless steel. His basic signet was branded into the corner of each star, a little asterisk-like icon surrounded by a tiny circle. If a person was found dead with a star embedded in his pitiful corpse, they would know who to blame, and who to fear. Romero Gigio, that's who! The ninja ran a hand through his sweaty hair, his face was red, sunburnt from hiking during the day. Romero sighed, why couldn't he adjust to the heat?

__

But that Winslett brat seems to be doin' fine… A pretty little blonde, like a dolly to be dressed up and thrown around. To break…

His thoughts became impure, lowering one eyebrow and snickering to himself. Dario had every right to be concerned about Kaitlyn's safety, Romero was sinfully perverted, and quite proud of it. The ninja wiped his nose and acknowledged the fact that he sort of fancied her, enough to daydream about it with a corrupt grin on his face.

A pair of unidentifiable boots and legs appeared at the entrance of his hole/cave, making Romero's self-defense instinct wake him from his paedophiliac frame of mind and back to what he should be worried about. He did not recognize those shoes. He went as still as a ninja could be, barely breathing for fear of being caught. The pair of legs shifted a bit, closer to him, though Romero knew that his presence was unnoticed. He pulled his knees up to his chin and waited, watching for any way to identify the body those legs were attached to.

"…Tome a la izquierda. Hmm, una cosa más. ¡Caramba!" The voice snorted, thick with irritation. The language he spoke was not English, even a fool could tell that, including Romero. He saw hands were placed upon hips and the stranger snorted again. This person was not very tall and had a kind of darkish skin tone, a foreigner to these lands? "Stupid bird… You get me in trouble." He added as an afterthought, switching his dialect to English but still coming off as one quite alien to the language.

Romero could not take it anymore. He was very intrigued and felt he had to answer. "¡Hola!" He exclaimed from his hiding place, making his own shift to his native language. "¿Quien está usted?" As you could generally tell from his name, Romero was basically Spanish with a fluent tongue when it came to things like that. He hardly ever spoke the way he should, because then the only person who would be able to understand him was his brother, Dario. And you couldn't make any money that way. Romero could speak properly in English, but he could not read or write it, that was Dario's job. He reiterated himself in English, just in case. "Hey! Who are you?"

The stranger's hands slid off his hips, fingers spacing themselves in silent shock. He seemed like he didn't expect to be spoken to while he was so isolated in the wasteland. Before he even knew what was happening to him, a long tanned arm shoved itself into Romero's hole and grabbed his green bandanna, the bandit stiffened and gasped, feeling solid knuckles grazing his throat. Yet the motion was too quick and he was yanked out of his cool sanctuary, meeting a pair of furious and startled hazel eyes. "¿Quien está _usted_?" He asked, turning the question back on Romero. The man was short and a little bow-legged, with very curly brown hair and almond-shaped eyes. He did indeed look very foreign. "¿Cuál es su nacionalidad?"

"My nationality?" Romero repeated, his one eye widening. "Well, uh, I'm a Filgaian Spaniard, I guess." He raised his hands and easily wrenched himself from the little man's grip, it was not nearly as powerful as he had dared to think. Romero looked up to the sun, it was covered by a small cloud and nullified by the vapour created by the blockage. The ninja brushed himself off, patting the area of his kneecaps because they were encrusted with dirt from the cave. "What are you doin' here? Sounds like you're lost."

"I… I look for bird." Said the man, struggling with a heavy Spanish accent and through the complicated syllables. He pointed to the sky, where no feathered fowl chose to exist. "You see bird? I no find bird..." He slumped his shoulders and stared sullenly at the ground. A lot of his health rode on completing his mission, and it looked to be permanently in the pits right now. His boss would be beyond upset if anything were to happen to the bird, it was very important to their plans.

"Antonio!"

Antonio cringed, instantly identifying the light masculine voice that emanated from behind him. He was really hoping to avoid him until he could fix the problem he had fouled up. Gravel crunched under the soles of boots as a small team of people approached, all familiar to each other. The new person anxiously wrung his hands and slowly turned around to the voice, grinning in muted apprehension. "Buenos tardes, Señor." He stuttered, meeting his Boss's displeased gaze. Ravendor had his arms folded, Kaitlyn by his side. He was lightly tapping his bicep with the fingers of his opposing hand, trails of smoke from a cigarette tucked away in the corner of his mouth rising into the air.

"Indeed." Ravendor mouthed with the slightest and most untraceable narrowing of his eyes. "Explanation. Now." It was not a question, just a simple and forceful order. Kaitlyn looked up at her uncle, she had suddenly sensed a weird coldness coming down over his persona, vibrant even in the intolerable heat. Warm winds blew back the end of his long jacket, surging out behind him. He did not look too benevolent at that current moment in time.

The curly-haired man tugged at his shirt collar, feeling with full force the discontent Ravendor sent to him, it broke upon his soul like tidal waves smashing up against a solitary sand castle. "Señor Ravendor, I follow orders, I stay at place and get stuff ready, but then, then I lose bird. Have no bird, it go away." He tried to explain it as best he could in failing English, for Ravendor could not understand a word of Spanish as well as _he_ could.

"Wait, he's one of us?" Romero wondered out loud, facing his team leader. "Boss? What's goin on?" He noticed Kaitlyn looking up at him, a cute smile on her face. She seemed happy over something Romero didn't know about. It unnerved him slightly, but then again, all children did that to him.

Dario slapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, bro. You didn't think the Boss'd just hire us, did you? I mean, I was kind of guessin' something like this would happen." Antonio looked strangely at Dario, like someone going over a pile of old photos and trying to remember the names of all the people captured on paper. The man had unusual eyes, he looked young, barely over twenty five, but he had the weirdly shaped eyes of a cat, inquisitive and calculating.

A fluttering of black wings blew a very weak wind and knocked Ravendor's ponytail aside, a pair of pinching talons sinking into his white jacket. The bandit leader seemed to have anticipated this and held one arm out straight so the animal could land properly, hunched over with shadowy wings spread wide. The creature cawed once and leered at the bandits through eyes that had an intelligence equal to any human. "Ah, Kestorael," Ravendor greeted the bird on his arm, "Welcome back." It hopped up to his shoulder and remained there with apparent pride, at a place where it was supposed to be.

"You find bird!" Antonio exclaimed, surprised.

"No," Ravendor disagreed, "He has found us." Kestorael was a large black raven, apparently tamed and the pet of their group's leader. Ravendor reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny strip of unsalted beef jerky, feeding it to the bird who gulped the treat down greedily. As the bird ate, Ravendor united a loose red silk ribbon from around one of it's legs, a thin message unravelling into his hand. He pocketed the ribbon and looked at the note, only a few sentences long.

"Yes, the bird, He only just come back, good bird." Antonio explained in his heavily laden Spanish accent. Inside, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. It looked like he was off the hook. That raven sure knew the best time to turn up, though it would have been better if it had never flown the coop in the first place.

"And yet the drifter team refuses to turn themselves in." Said Ravendor, announcing the contents of the note. "If they will not hang, then I-" He stole a glance at Kaitlyn who seemed to be fascinated by the arrival of his pet. "I will be forced to retaliate." He didn't care whether or not the other three lived or died, that was all just routine in the wasteland, life or death, heads or tails. Well, maybe he did just give a little damn about Jet, though the boy seemed to despise him now. What he really wanted to see was Clive hanging suspended from the scaffolds, a rope biting deeply into his bloody and broken neck. Ravendor would trade all his earthly possessions just to be present at the execution, with the best seat reserved only for him. He would laugh and clap, and when it was over, he would cut the body down himself just to see if it were dead. 

"Can I see the bird?" Kaitlyn asked adorably, stretching her small arms out to the raven. Kestorael cocked his head to one side and cawed almost questioningly, looking at his master. The girl _loved_ pets, she had a cat of her own, but had never gotten really close to such a majestic big bird before.

"Oh, by all means." Ravendor replied jovially, not showing at all the morbidly horrific thoughts running through his secretive head, extending his own arm so the bird could hop down it and over to the girl. It did not seem like it, but Kestorael was not an ordinary creature, he was a rare form of wind sprite, a wind raven, as it were. Most sprites of that element were usually rodents, but Kestorael was a beautiful exception. Though he could not talk, he was perfectly capable of understanding human speech, and because of that, was able to make his own choice. He decided to say 'hello' to Kaitlyn by hopping on the small perch of her shoulder and pulling her hair gently with an ebony black beak, claws only lightly digging into her dress. Then, he nipped her lightly on the ear with his ebony beak, marking her as a friend.

"Hey, ah, ow!" Kaitlyn exclaimed between giggles, it didn't hurt, it just felt weird. Hesitantly, she stroked the bird's smooth feathered back, it felt silky and cool, the bird's beady little eyes were a pretty blue, an unusual colour for a simple scavenger. His claws grazed her delicate skin under her dress, like when she taunted her cat and it built up the courage to try and scratch her, but here she felt a sort of cheerful kindness coming from the dark raven, it _did_ want to be her friend.

"That does mean he like you," Antonio explained, brushing back some of his curly brown hair to show a reddened ear, "I get bit too, see?" He rubbed it and decided never to let a raven chew on his ear ever again. He tried not to burst out laughing at that thought. He didn't think he'd have to promise _that_ to himself, a nonsensical proclamation.

"Kestorael, come." Ravendor ordered, beckoning. The raven harmlessly scratched Kaitlyn behind the ear and flew back to his original perch on Ravendor's shoulder, eyeing everyone with intrigue. He had a strand of Kaitlyn's hair in his beak, for ravens were attracted to shiny and beautiful things. He looked happy at finding his new prize. "Now," Said the group leader, getting back to business, "I thought I told you to remain at your post." The tone of his voice became darker, "Why do you disobey me?"

"I so sorry!" Antonio apologised with vehemence, "Señor Ravendor, the bird, he fly away and I follow, I track bird so no get lost, Si?" The newest bandit pointed to the raven almost accusingly, blaming everything on the animal. Kestorael was aware of this and cawed back at him, denying it without words. He fluttered his wings and a feather fell from the plumage, floating to the rocky earth.

"Kestorael is _meant_ to keep up communications with out unnameable allies," Ravendor scolded, flashing the note he had received at the bandit, "You should have followed my orders despite _any_ complications. I should punish you, but…" His tone softened and he sighed, shrugging. "I suppose we are all together now, even if your meeting is a premature one. Dario, Romero, here is the surprise I mentioned, your brother, Antonio."

All the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in the interlocking framework of life. The three bandits felt like they had been clubbed by Emperor Marduke himself. Romero and Dario looked at Antonio, the new member of the team did likewise. Then Dario and Romero looked at each other, their mouths open in a gape. Ravendor smiled, amused at the stares they were giving everyone. "I am correct?" He continued, "You have a brother named Antonio, and a deceased one named Lucio?"

The blonde ninja pounced, throwing himself at the shorter and younger bandit. "'Tonio! ¡Hermanos, hermanos! ¡Dios mio! Holy fucking Guardians! I didn't recognize you, it's been, it's been ten years!" Antonio was practically crushed under Romero's huge bear hug, a little too shocked to return anything right now. He decided that going limp would be the best thing and he did so, smiling a little.

"'Ro?" He asked, "Is that you?" He glanced behind Romero, a difficulty because his vision was impeded by a whole lot of blonde hair and a bandanna. "And so that be big brother Dario over there?" He saw Dario grin and nod, tipping his hat for a welcoming greeting. Ten years since they had last met. In their childhood, they terrorized the township of Little Twister as a small gang called the 'Latin Quarter', just the four boys, Lucio, Dario, Romero and Antonio, in that order of age and rank. Circumstances caused them to split and they had never seen each other since. That is, until today.

Romero looked positively euphoric, turning to Ravendor. "How the hell did you know about-" 

"I answer that." Antonio cut in, grinning. "I look for brothers, all over Filgaia. I find nothing, no Romero, no Dario, no even Lucio. Then, in tavern, man comes up to me," He gestured to Ravendor, "And say; _'You look for brothers? I help you find brothers.' _He say I help him, he help me. And here I am." Happily, Antonio slapped Romero hard on the back, nearly knocking the blonde bandit over. "So! Little ninja be big ninja now! You grow, hermanos, up so big now, yes?"

"And you," Romero replied, a huge smirk on his face, "You're still a shortass." He emphasized his statement by lowering a hand and indicating a height to the ground, not very high at all. "I remember when you were only _this_ tall," He said, "But you've made some progress, so that's alright." He scratched his scarred eye, a smirk fixed on his sunburnt face.

The short man looked indignant, but in a merry way. "¡Soy tan alto como usted!" He proclaimed in unbroken Spanish, looking away haughtily. Antonio, rubbed his cheek with the back of a hand, revealing that he wore the most unusual type of gloves, tough hard leather with lead-capped knuckles and a metal rod running parallel to the bones in his hand. He was equipped with no ARMs, but a direct hit with those gloves could seriously hurt somebody.

"Suuuure you are," Dario agreed sarcastically, joining in on the conversation, "An' I guess your English ain't improved, neither."

"I English dyslexic!" Antonio answered, "I no can help! Dario, you still gunner?"

"Yep," Said Dario, continuing to hold Kaitlyn's hand, "You know I couldn't cut it as no ninja, 'kept fallin' off buildings, and I'm much better with a gun anyways." There was once a time when Dario had tried to be a ninja, with catastrophic results. He had broken his leg three times in one year because of it. Dario had never tried again. Romero and Antonio were the really gifted ones, and he sadly admitted, he had accumulated the brains of the gang, though it was not much.

Ravendor coughed loudly to get everyone's attention, his cigarette fuming in his hand. "This is no simple reunion," He informed them, "Might I remind you gentlemen that we have a destination to reach?" The three bandits became downcast, looking to the west. The afternoon was aging, and if they continued to travel now, it would only be a few hours until the dark. Against his will, Dario's stomach grumbled it's need for food, and the bandit clutched at it guiltily. Kaitlyn continued to look tired, her pure white stockings stained with gritty dust. Kestorael cawed something naggingly on his ear, and Ravendor finally conceded defeat. He was used to walking for miles and miles, he had selfishly forgotten that the others could not do the same.

"I'm hungry." Said Kaitlyn, pulling on Dario's arm. The bandit nodded, for the feeling was mutual.

With a well-directed breath, Ravendor blew his long fringe out of his face, rolling his green eyes in exasperation. He drew a hand across his brow to wipe away tiny traces of sweat from his face, the movement spilling cigarette ash onto his immaculate jacket. He brushed the grey cinders away and blew smoke through his nose, a small grey cloud forming near his face. "This is incorrigible, but I shall allow it only this once, for the sake of the child's health. But be warned, if she were not present, I would have no qualms about making you march for hundreds of miles on nothing but bread and water. You three," He gestured to the bandits, "Set up camp. We will stay here tonight."

"Camping?" Kaitlyn breathed, absolutely loving the idea. "We get to go camping?"

Ravendor patted her gently on the head. "Of course. With a bonfire and everything. You shall enjoy it, I expect." He shot a glance at the bandits, making them jump up to work, running around and readying a campsite. Ravendor didn't have to do a thing. Mind elsewhere, he stroked Kestorael's feathers and mused on the things that were to come, creating a secret smile.


	28. Spirit Guides

The tunnel narrowed in on itself as it dropped lower and lower into the earth below, the chamber they were seeking was some kind of extended basement, hardly visited by anyone not consisting of the Baskar priesthood. Both of Gallows's shoulders chafed against the walls of the corridor uncomfortable, he tried to tuck them in as much as possible and felt his fingers slide on the neatly chiseled cold stone surrounding him. The priest hadn't been down here for a very long while and he distinctly remembered that this place used to be a lot larger. Gallows followed the path the flaming torch in his hand created, guessing that they were nearly there. The truth was, the last time he had come here, he had been a lot smaller. It wasn't that he hated the place, it was just incredibly boring and brought nothing but bad memories to his mind.

Shane was still damp from his unscheduled shower, making a small trail with his wet shoes on the stairs. He did feel a little self-conscious at bringing non-Baskars into this place, because he came here to pray often when he felt lonely or sad. Filgaia was saved from the clutches of the dream-demon, but Shane was still forbidden to leave his village and explore the world, at least until he turned eighteen. He wanted to see the Filgaia in all it's entirety, and someday, he would, travelling just like his older brother did. But now, he would help his friends as much as possible.

The younger Baskar abruptly halted and held his hand out backwards so Gallows could pass him the torch. Abrasive wood was pressed into his palm and he swept the instrument a small space ahead, the stairs had stopped and only an inky void lay in front of them. "Here we are." Shane announced, revealing a tightly-sealed door with the firelight, made of tough heart-of-pine with solid metal hinges and handle, it did not look of Baskar design and must have only been installed in recent years. Shane grasped the handle and pulled, straining a little because the door was heavy.

His hand was brushed aside and Gallows stepped in front of him, squeezing himself ahead. "Let me, I'm stronger." he advised, wrenching the obstacle open with ease. Light flooded into the corridor from within the chamber, a dozen or so lit torches scattered within the shrine giving off a never-ending luminosity. Gallows faced the three drifters shielding their eyes from the sudden light, grinning in his usual fashion. "Welcome, welcome. Come in on." He beckoned for them follow him inside, waiting a second for Shane to go on ahead.

As her eyes adjusted to the firelight, Virginia noticed the stuffiness in the room and guessed that they were in a deep underground chamber without proper ventilation, smelling faintly of mothballs. It was more like a very large hallway than a room, twin aisles of many animal idols framing a long walkway extending all the way to the back of the room. Shane and Gallows dripped water onto a dried grass mat, a crisscrossing design giving the room a strangely earthen and natural feeling to it. This place must be very old, it felt ancient. "Is this the totem room?" The female drifter asked the Baskars, staring at all the many idols around her. They did not look appear to be of any Guardians she was familiar with.

"Yep." Gallows answered, silently aquatinting himself with the shrine once more. It felt like he was saying 'hello' to an old friend again. Everything was as he remembered it, right down to the eerie intelligence the eyes of each idol seemed to show. His mother used to take him down here to pray, before Shane was born, but those memories were so distant and lifeless, as if they had never happened. No, Gallows shook his head, this was not the time to get lost down memory lane.

Shane turned to face the drifting team and bowed with extreme reverence, the effect was lessened somewhat because of his dampness, but it still got the result he desired. All eyes were focussed on him now. "This area of our culture is hardly mentioned when regarding our religious rites, because it has barely any reference to the Guardians within it." He explained with a humble smile, waving to several idols with the flick of a few fingers. "However, it influences our day-to-day lives immensely and is invaluable to our Baskar society as a whole. Please, look around you, what do you see?"

Jet let his eyes flick around the chamber, absently noting all the stuff that occupied the room, the torches, the long mat, and even the weird and spooky statues. "I see a bunch of animal figures." He said, observing an intricately carved likeness of a cougar close by, the creature made to look in a mid pounce, sharp teeth bared and capable of ripping a man to tiny shreds. The eyes of the animal glittered in the firelight, and Jet realized that they eyes of the creature were miniscule gems, too small to be worth anything substantial, but enough to augment the beauty of the statue.

"Exactly." Shane replied, happy that they had understood. Gallows moved to the corner of the chamber and yawned, he had heard this sermon plenty of times and knew it off by heart, the purpose of this shrine. He could not explain it but Shane could, so he left his younger brother to the work. "We Baskars do not only worship the Guardians, there is so much more than that, like our mutual devotion to the spirit animals that serve the Guardians themselves. For every Guardian, there will always be several species of animal that are it's vassals, like a natural medium to the powers that sustain the world, without the use of any artificial mediums. This is the shrine in which they are worshipped, a closer and more submissive method of Guardian contact."

Virginia held a hand to her chin, trying to absorb the confusing information. "I don't understand. Can you explain it a little simpler, please?" Maybe it was just the stuffy room playing with her reasoning, but to her, Shane wasn't making any sense. She looked at Catherine and Jet, the woman's eyes were staring at the ground, hands in the pockets of her dress. She might not have understood the information too, but it was hard to see at the moment. Jet's face was, as always, totally unreadable.

Gallows raised his hands. "I volunteer to be translator!" He proclaimed responsibly, the bangles around his wrists clanking as he did so. "What my little bro means," He simplified, "Is that we have big gods, the Guardians, and we also have littler gods, more like spirit guides, named after lots of species of animals. Get it?" The Baskar glanced at his brother, grinning. "I'm right, right?"

"Wow, you remembered, I'm impressed." Shane smiled, nodding. "I might be explaining things too intricately, I'm sorry. Here, look at it this way. Has anyone present here ever heard of the Zodiac before?" He looked around for a reaction, making up on the spot a good way to familiarize the method he was talking about. Virginia raised her hand, jumping up and down like a small student who knew the answer to a complicated question.

"Oh, yes! I had a book about it at home, about the star signs and how they influence how your day turns out. Is that part of the Baskar religion?" She wondered openly, recalling the information. She originally thought that the stuff in that book was just nonsense, but if a priest-in-training like Shane brought it up, maybe stuff like that actually was true.

"No, nothing like that." Shane replied, shaking his head. "What I meant to say was, the system of spirit guides works in a very similar manner. For example, in the zodiac you are assigned an animal depending on what month you were born, and that animal would decide your future in collaboration to the location of the planets in the sky. In our faith, you are assigned an animal guide through your personality and the experiences you have undertaken in your life. That animal shall stick with you in spirit until your dying day, invisible, but most definitely there."

"Hold on a sec!" Jet interrupted, "Are you tryin' to say that some guys have invisible animals following 'em around and helpin' out? Heh, sorry, but I just can't believe that." The whole concept was ludicrous, did they actually expect him to swallow that tripe? Jet closed his eyes and sniffed, showing his skeptical nature.

"Jet!" Virginia scolded, hitting him lightly in the shoulder, "Nobody asked for your opinion, so be quiet. Shane was being nice enough to lend us a hand, don't be so difficult!" She softened and turned back to Shane, amused at the telling off Jet was getting. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought of the two of them as a couple, because of the way they always bickered.

Catherine finally spoke up, voicing her opinion. "I have heard of elemental animal sprites existing in Filgaia, does that have any correlation to the information you are explaining here?" As children, Ravendor used to own a pet wind raven, recent events had conjured up that vague and distant memory, catching her intrigue. If that was correct, did that mean that non-Baskars could also be part of such a practice, even without them knowing it?

Shane nodded. "Yes. Just as we serve the Guardians, so do the sprites, a manifestation of the spirits in the physical world. Generally, they attach themselves to people who need their guidance in the most vital way, lost and saddened souls. You are not new to this concept, are you, Ma'am?" The young priest laid a hand on the nearby cougar statue and looked upon the animal with amicable fondness. "I myself have a spirit guide to guide me through life, and here she is." He stroked the head of the idol, cold and oddly warm and the same time.

"The statue?" Catherine asked, regarding the idol with awe.

"My spirit guide is the Cougar, otherwise known as the dream hunter, servant of the lesser Guardian, Ione Paua, long since vanished into obscurity." The animal's jeweled eyes almost seemed to glow as Shane touched the idol, the low toned sound of a wildcat growl coursing through the three ark scepters and the minds of the chosen drifters. "Just as the cougar hunts the craggy wilderness of our Filgaia, so does it wander through the dream world seeking the memories of mankind, and I myself am bound to that aspect of the spirit." He smiled and lowered his hand, the red glowing eyes going dull. "Actually, I would not be surprised if every human on this planet were not bound in some way or another to a certain spirit guide, whether they are aware of it or not."

"Really?" Virginia said with amazement, "Maybe even us too?" She scanned the many different sculptures and wondered which animals belonged to who. "Shane, can you tell us a little about each animal, please?"

Shane blushed slightly, "Well, I only know about a few, because I'm only a candidate for a priest, but I'll tell you about all the ones I do know. Come, follow me down the aisle." The young Baskar skipped the first few statues, giving them looks of acknowledgement, as if they were alive to observe him. He paused at a burly cattle-like animal sculpture and pointed to it, gathering the attentions of the drifters. "This is, I think, my big brother's spirit guide, right?" He looked to Gallows who was bringing up the rear.

"Uh-huh. That one's mine, Schturdark's servant." Gallows put his hands behind his head and sighed, he didn't really like to think that he had an intangible entity with him at all times determining his fate. It was far too unreliable, and a blow to his personal privacy. But, he knew he was being a little hypocritical because he often used the Guardian mediums for help and he shouldn't belittle their faithful servants. "My guide is the Buffalo, the… heh, It'll sound cliché if I say it, so I won't." He laughed, trying to smooth out his puffed-out hair.

"Then I'll say it for you." Shane volunteered, smirking as he saw his brother choke. "He earned his guide years back, Buffalo, the seeker of freedom. The great beasts that run across the plain with only the sun and the flatlands to guide their wayward souls," He chuckled for a few seconds, "Grandmother does say that the image is befitting of you, a big hulking thing rushing around for no apparent reason."

Gallows pointed a finger into the air, going slightly red. "We all know what 'ol Granny thinks!" He declared, smirking. "But what we really need to see is-"

A quiet voice interrupted them both. Catherine had wandered off and was observing a statue in the far back of the room, one hand cradling her elbow and the other on her chin, like she was an art critic inspecting a controversial piece of artwork. "What is this one?" She asked, impressed by the perfect way the lifelike feathers were carved out of a pure rock that bore all the qualities of polished obsidian. It was a large black bird, wings spread wide with a small head looking downwards at the floor, as if it perched on high and watched a spectacle from far away.

"That is the Raven." Shane explained, catching up to where Catherine stood. "The servant of the lost Guardian, Solus Emsu, lord of the Heavens. Why do you want to know?" He wished that Catherine had not brought up the subject of _that_ particular idol, it wasn't that he did not know anything about it, but it was not a pleasing topic.

"Oh, no reason," She lied, gazing into the jeweled eyes of the animal, "I am just curious, that is all."

Mentally, Shane shrugged. Usually, when a person was called to a certain idol, it meant that they were under it's universal protection, but this nice woman could _not_ have been part of the raven's brood, she was far too kind for that. "The raven is the spirit guide of inescapable destiny, known as the lonesome trickster, and the watcher of far away. Many Baskars would call it one of the cursed idols, for hardly any goodwill can come from their protection. The raven is the harbinger of death and ill-fortune, and I pity all who are guided by that spirit."

Catherine turned sharply to Shane. "Are you saying that the raven spirit is a spirit of evil?" She tried not to sound involved with the subject, but the tone of her voice could not hide it's hidden intent. True, Ravendor had matured into a heartless and vile villain, but before that, he had been one of the sweetest little boys she had ever known…

Shane raised an eyebrow and then shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, I painted a blacker scene than what I meant to do. I can tell you this; though a person's soul may be good on the inside, the spirit of the raven will give them incredible power and wisdom, whether they want it or not, and as a result, they shall be forever distanced and isolated from their fellow man, misfortune hardening and cracking their unwilling hearts. That is why some call it a cursed protection. From such despair, they usually become like the raven itself who travels the wasteland, a fowl that plays tricks on it's fellow animals, if only to hide the pain and loneliness experienced on the inside."

Gallows added his input. "Yeah, that's a nasty one. It's a good thing that there aren't many raven spirits left in the world, but I feel sorry for anyone who's cursed with one." He clapped his hands together, not noticing Catherine lower her head and look sadly at the floor. "So," He continued, "Can you show us the wolf idol? That's what we came to see, you know."

Their leader understood the reason why Gallows wanted them to come down here. She patted Gallows on the shoulder in appreciation. "Gallows! You actually thought of something! Did you remember what you were going to say in Claiborne?"

"Um, nope, but all that talk about wolves made me think about this one thing in here. It's a long shot, but maybe Clive has made a connection to the wolf spirit guide? I'm just guessin' here, but it's worth a shot." He answered her, proud of his wit.

"What, this one?" Jet murmured, turning to the statue right next to the raven idol. It was the likeness of a great wolf in mid-howl at a non-existent moon. The sculptor who made the image did not leave anything undone, even each individual piece of fur looked perfect on the animal's flank. Though no-one noticed it at the time, it was truly ironic how both idols stood right next to each other, for they were eternally ancient rivals according to the Baskar mythologies.

"The wolf is one of the four great idols of power, instrumental in the shaping of this world." Shane said with reverence, "The servant of Luceid, the great she-wolf. The others were the dragons of Zephyr, the lions of Justine, and the angels of Raftina. You have their mediums, don't you?" Almost in sync, the three drifters removed their golden mediums and looked at their radiant shine. It seemed that being in this room made the mediums happy, for some reason.

"In the beginning," He continued, "The four Guardian lords created this planet of Filgaia with their own powers, complimenting and reinforcing their own strengths and weaknesses. Justine shaped the physical appearance of the planet, the rocks and the earth, while Raftina breathed life into the planet and manufactured the first plant and single celled life forms. Zephyr helped that life through it's evolution and gave it the semblance of individuality, the formation of a mind and soul." Shane paused to take another breath, the creation story was one he had learnt off by heart. "Despite this, they were capable of intelligent thought, but lacked the wisdom to put their talents to good use. Life was still as a lump of clay waiting to be molded into a useful form. This was when Luceid, Guardian of desire, descended to Filgaia and gave wisdom and direction to it's fledgling children. Luceid is the giver of wisdom, but it was both a blessing _and_ a curse, for a Pandora's box was opened that could never be closed again. We knew love, courage and hope, but at the same time, also lust, doubt, jealously, and even hate. With the wisdom given, we could now see the difference between right and wrong."

"From what I've learnt at the Ark of Destiny, didn't our forefathers arrive on Filgaia using a ship from another planet?" Virginia cut in, "So, this stuff wouldn't apply to us, you're talking about the neo-sapiens that came before us, right?"

Shane smiled. "When we came to this planet, we were immediately tied down to it's rules and customs. We were unable to adapt to this new environment, so Luceid returned and showed us the way. She is, in truth, a teacher of humanity, showing us both light and darkness. I suppose one could call her a force of chaos, creating for us many different paths and urging us to choose the one we believe is right. Many people believe desire to be absolute…"

"What does this have to do with Clive?" Jet whispered impatiently to Virginia.

"Just hush up and listen." She answered, leaning over a little to reply.

Their guide crossed his arms and closed his eyes, recalling even more information. "We of Baskar give high esteem to those who are under the protection of a Guardian lord spirit guide. In the case of the wolf, that individual is the embodiment of wisdom and experience, a teacher to others and a guardian in his own right. He will always protect the ones he cares about and bears a great paternal instinct over family and friends. He shall protect them without reservation, most often at the cost of his own life. The wolf is the great teacher, the great parent, and…" He added, "The great martyr."

Virginia sighed, slumping her shoulders. "That _does_ sound familiar…" Shane had just described Clive perfectly, and it filled her full of anxious dread. What did that mean? A martyr? The female drifter instantly regretted letting Clive go off on his own, they could not protect him anymore, what if he did something foolish and wound up dead? Virginia knew that she should put more faith in his abilities, but she could not help but feel cold on the inside.

Another hand took hers gently and she tensed from the contact, yet feeling a little of the coldness go away as her hand was lightly squeezed. Jet didn't outwardly show what he was thinking, still looking like everything in the world bothered him and they should all just go to Hell, but he would not let Virginia's hand leave his.

"Does this information help?" Shane questioned everyone, absent-mindedly wringing more water out of his hair. He honestly didn't know what kind of benefit they could glean from what he had told them, but hoped that he had at least done his part well.

"Yeah, I think we've been able to confirm some things." Gallows replied, patting his little brother on the shoulder. "Thanks for the help." Shane grinned proudly and wiped away a feather stuck to his face from the water. It felt nice to be able to help.

"Well, well, well! The prodigal son returns!" Said a new voice in the area, aged yet losing none of it's spite. Wood repeatedly thumped on the ground as another figure hobbled into the chamber, back bent after years of living and gaining wisdom. Halle squinted almost accusingly at Gallows, an evil grin on her wrinkled face.

Startled, Gallows did something stupid. He jumped like someone had shoved a taser into his back and fell over, landing with his arms spread wide. Virginia giggled and nudged him with her foot. "I- er, came back for a reason!" He shouted to the roof, the only thing he could see right now.

Cheekiness sparkled in her clear and wise eyes, not hindered by her old age. She tried to look angry, if only for the discomfort she was giving her grandchild. "What happened? Run out of gella already and came to beg some off Shane?" She winked, "Or did you actually come down here to _pray_?"

"Well, um, I- ah… erm… I forgot." He stuttered, scratching his head.

Everybody sweatdropped, groaning. 


	29. Healing Factor

What he was doing was reckless, he knew that, but if he did not keep his mind occupied, it might slip away into another world again, and he would wake up more like a monster than before. He deemed himself too far along the road for a proper recovery already, and if he kept this up, he would have nothing human left about him. Clive paced on the roof of the train carriage, ever nudged away by the rough winds, but easily standing his ground. This train ride was taking _far_ too long. Okay, they were in the canyon, but where the hell was the station?

He adjusted his glasses impatiently, shooting worried glances at the position of the sun. _I do not remember this journey taking so long… What is the problem?_ Clive looked down at the gravel holding in place the train tracks as they helped to push the machine forward, they had changed from large lumps of slate to a finer form of sand and dirt; the path was degrading as they headed into obscurity. 

Moving his arm sent a mild shock of pain down his spine, he was hurting now even without any reason to do so, but Clive had learnt to just ignore it, he couldn't do anything about it anyway. It kind of felt like the nerves in his body were gradually resetting themselves, reassigning positions to work in an entirely different manner. Sometimes, if he moved a few fingers the wrong way, it would cause a muscle in his shoulder to twitch, or one of his legs to jerk slightly without his consent. He was well aware of what was happening to him, the internal map of his body was being rewritten. The drifter ran his tongue over the pair of sharp incisors he had only just noticed, a tickling feeling at the back of his throat forming. He knew this simple fact to be true, he was not human anymore.

Noticing something unusual tucked into the sleeve of his coat, Clive held his arm up to his face, delicately removing the object stuck in the fabric. A black raven's feather, the plume shining magically in the light, Clive watched the quill flutter in the savage winds, movement creating shimmering patterns that were beyond beautiful. A gift from his feathered friend before he had chosen to depart, perhaps?

"I _do_ know that animal from somewhere…" He told himself, running a finger across the black plume, "A raven… raven…" His mind went fuzzy, more than ten years ago, he had seen a raven, before Yggdrasil and his blindness, he hated those memories, but he forced himself to think. He recalled a dim scene of Catherine giggling while a tiny tamed raven nibbled at her ear, next to a dark-haired youth who was watching all of this and laughing. He was tracking, he was tracking…

__

Raven… raven… Ravendor. I am tracking Ravendor, and he once had a pet named…

"Kestorael!" He called into the sky, it was probably too late, but he hoped he could get some reply. Clive was ashamed of himself, how could he have forgotten old Kestorael, a special pet that he had practically grown up with? It was no wonder that the bird had become so friendly with Clive, it recognized him and the metal demon had not. The sniper went a little red, embarrassed at his lack of memory. Just how much thought had Yggdrasil taken from him while Clive was unaware? He counted back the time, the years, during the accident that degraded the planet almost irreversibly, what precisely had he been doing? Why did he not notice the change, other than the global amnesia affecting the world?

He almost smiled, Clive knew the answer all right. Chronologically speaking, he had been blind at the time of the accident, he did not notice a thing because he could not _see_ a thing. It was the failed assignment that almost took Catherine's life and wounded his own. In addition, he had been far too worried about Catherine to notice anything else. The temporary blindness that nearly cost him his sight, how much stuff did it blot out of his memory?

Clive sat down, crossing his legs. Kestorael refused to answer, he was probably too far away to even hear his calls, that is, if he would even choose to obey his orders in the first place. Didn't he work solely for Ravendor now? Besides, all animals seemed to despise him in the new form he had developed. A demon. Not even his own mount, Hasufel, wanted to come near him. Clive did not really blame the animal, not after what he had done last night in Claiborne, but he just wished that the world would not hate him so.

One hand was pressed against the metal surface of the train's roof, picking up all the vibrations running through the framework. Clive directed his attention to it, for he suddenly sensed a change in the vibration, a shift into a lower frequency, the sound waves he was picking up with his advanced hearing had lengthened. That could only mean one thing. The train was slowing down. Clive held his hand up to block out the sun, squinting over the horizon. He could not see very well because he was perpetually moving with the carriages, but yes, the station could be barely seen in the horizon. Without thinking too deeply about it, Clive stashed the black feather in a pocket within his coat and stood up to his full height, short green ponytail flicking in the breeze.

__

I had better get down from here, It would not do to be seen this way…

Being careful that gravity would not pull him under the churning wheels, Clive gripped the border of the window lines down each of the carriages, feeling around for the one he had left wide open a short while before. His hand contacted with a window that had it's glass pane slipped aside and he tightened his hold on the border, uncomfortable with such a miniscule barrier between himself and the moving rails below. Getting the awkward moment over with, Clive swung himself back down into the nearly vacant cabin, content at being indoors again. One could only take so much of a breeze before one became sick of it. 

This was the same room he had left the rail attendant in, the sharp youth that he vaguely remembered as being named Tony. There he was, still sprawled over the wooden bench, a dried trickle of blood staining his clean shaven chin. Clive lowered his eyebrows, the boy still had not woken up yet? Strange, he was positive he did not hit him _that_ hard, what was wrong? The sniper leant over the limp body, laying a hand on his dark green shoulder. The cloth was warm from the youth's body heat, so he was still alive, but he just did not want to be resuscitated. Clive shook him lightly, making Tony's head nod a little bit in unconsciousness.

__

I believe he requires medical attention… Clive told himself, holding the attendant at the back with one hand and his legs with the other. He straightened the youth out on the bench and pressed down firmly on his stomach, at the place where he had whimsically hit him. Something did not feel right, like an organ was set slightly out of place in the body. Clive bit his lip, he had done this deed to the boy, and it looked more severe than he had originally considered. The tension caused the youth to cough in his catatonia, a little more blood dribbling out of his mouth. Raising a hand, Clive wiped the blood away and look at the new series of evidence, it seemed like the boy was suffering from an internal rupture, inner bleeding and severe bruising. It required a doctor's immediate care.

But Clive was no doctor, nor even a very skilled paramedic. Other than some herbal concoctions he had brewed up from stuff Gallows had shown him, he knew nothing about medicine other than basic first aid. He scratched the back of his head, worried. He had no supplies, nothing to treat him with, and that was the extent of any help he could offer. Even so, if he stopped to help this young man, he would be sacrificing some of Kaitlyn's time, and a little of his own. Could he do that?

Then again, could he leave an innocent youth to suffer?

The conflict gave Clive a little idea, it would scarcely be adequate, but it might at least offer some ease for both of them. If he did nothing, Clive simply would not be able to live with himself, it went against his nature. The drifter took a moment to straighten out his glasses again and brush away a strand of loose hair caught by the wire frame, exhaling deeply and preparing himself for the strain that would soon overtake his mind. He had never used an Arcana in this method before, he hoped that his vague hypothesis would have some sort of success on his injured patient. There was only one way to find out.

"Life Drain… Esoteric… Arcana… Retraction." 

Instead of targeting an enemy in battle, Clive focussed the brunt of his spell directly on his own spirit, in a way, attacking himself. With extreme care, the drifter wrapped one hand around the youth's neck and held back another hand to distribute the extracted energy into Tony's lifeless form. With nobody else in the room for the energy to fly to, Tony was the only other option it had. Clive was counting on this. His clear blue eyes unfocused as a great fraction of his strength left his body, a giddy feeling of anemic weakness weighing down his limbs. The hand clutching Tony's neck glowed a deep crimson red, and the attendant's pale face seemed to colour a bit and look a little more alive, causing the boy to groan quietly and shift in his place. He still did not wake up, even as Clive fell to one knee, breaking out in a cold sweat. The potency of his spell had been far too great, more powerful than he had anticipated. He had not counted on so much of his energy being expended.

"C-can you hear me? Wake up…" He coughed, the glow in his hand fading as all strength flooded into Tony's body. Clive could not hold it up anymore and it slid down lifelessly, moving with Clive as it became too much for him to handle, the sniper flopping to one side on the clean wooden floor. Breathing harshly, he berated himself for trying too hard, for being far too generous in his support. How could he hope to save Kaitlyn if he could not even stand up? He was a fool.

No, he had caused this mess in the first place, it was only honorable to clean it up afterwards. Clive did not regret what he had done. He had no reason to act inhuman even if he was not one, his heart had still not succumbed to the frost that clung to his entire body. Tony's eyelids fluttered, the boy fighting viciously to regain consciousness. His white gloved hand curled to rest against his stomach, and though he still coughed feebly, no more blood escaped his lips.

Gathering all his stamina, Clive drew himself to his knees and clamped a hand over his chest, much in the same way he had done before a few hours ago, a completely automatic motion that had risen as a habit when he was hurt. He gritted his teeth roughly, moaning slightly as the familiar tingling warmth spread down from where his fist was clenched, healing factor repairing and stabilizing the energy taken from his body. Yes, it slipped his mind that he could heal himself in this manner, it made up for the fact that he lacked medical training or supplies. Clive's breathing deepened, his transient state of anemia perishing into a newly built vigor. A little wobbly, he pushed himself to his feet and felt the train roll to a stop at the station. He had forgotten that docking at his destination was imminent, the injured youth had pushed the thought straight out of his mind.

"Come with me…" Clive rasped, voice a little uneven from his spell of translocation, "I shall find you some medical attention, I promise." He pushed open the door to the cabin and effortlessly slung Tony over one shoulder, grateful that he could help now without pain for either of them. The boy was as light as a feather while he had his mighty gloves equipped, and being the only attendant on this particular train, Clive was not sighted as he carefully hauled the youth off the train and onto the windy platform. Sand began to sting his eyes a little, mostly protected from behind his glasses, but still causing ample irritation. Nobody else was here, the station was practically deserted.

Thinking this place as good as any, Clive lowered the body onto the cement platform with care, laying him out on his back and tilting his head up so the boy would be incapable of swallowing his own tongue. The sniper looked down at Tony and folded his arms, he nevertheless thought that he could do something more for the attendant undeserving of his punishment. He dug his hands into every one of his many pockets, in the hopes that he had _something_ with healing properties stored away that could help. The transferred energy wouldn't last forever, it was only a temporary cure. All he found was what he already knew he had, including the beautiful feather he had picked up only minutes before, the situation did not look good. At last, feeling a sense of relief fall down around his mind, a warming feeling similar to his own healing factor but much more natural, Clive's fingers brushed against what could only be barely dried-out leaves, attached to a plump growth that was luckily not squished in his pocket. Fastidiously, Clive removed the plant and saw a ripe maroon colour in the palm of his hand, a healthy and intact mega berry.

It seemed rather bizarre how fate had decided to deal him the worst possible destiny while luck continued to help him through his trouble without any reservation. That in itself made Clive think that something sinister was watching over him, the sensation materializing as a prickly feeling at the back of his neck. Yet there was nothing he could do about it at his current point in time, it would be best to worry over the things that affected him _now_, other than such garbage. The drifter was not really a very superstitious man in the first place.

"I am very sorry for this, please forgive me." He apologized to the nearly conscious man, kneeling over his body and hastily undoing the buttons to his dark green uniform. He then pulled up the white shirt underneath to show a deeply coloured bruising around his unprotected stomach, blotchy from ruptured blood vessels beneath the tender skin. It was very hard to look at, and if Clive had not been desensitized to the slight of blood and gore, he would have immediately looked away. The sniper pulled off one glove with his teeth, while his other hand was hooked under Tony's back, pulling the youth up a bit so he could apply the medication better. He spat out the piece of clothing and rolled the berry onto the palm of his hand, clenching the ungloved fist until the juices from the berry began to ooze between his fingers, a pulpy purple nectar that Clive let drip onto the youth's injured stomach. It's effect was lessened because the cure was not taken in the more orthodox way, orally, but Clive didn't want to risk choking the boy when this was a much simpler method.

When it was over, Clive laid the boy back down again and wiped his hand on a fold of his coat, cleaning away all the juice that was left from the treatment. Generally, it was better to seal off the application of a berry with a heal Arcana, and Clive wished he were as knowledgeable of that spell as much as he friend Gallows was. Shrugging and knowing that he had nothing more to lose, Clive let his bare hand hover over the unconscious attendant as he tried to tap into his enigmatic and newly found healing factor, hoping that he could repair others as well as himself. 

After about a minute of trying, he eventually gave up, coming to the conclusion that the only person who could benefit from his demon powers was his own lonesome self. Well, the berry was enough to cure him of any critical injury, and what Clive needed to do now was get the youth some help without he himself being seen. It had climbed into his soul slowly enough so as not to be noticed, but Clive was becoming increasingly skittish around humans. Whether it was a fear of hurting them or something entirely different was unknown to him, but he still didn't want to take any more chances than he needed to.

Making every step he took totally silent, Clive crept down to the ticket vendor's booth, hoping that somebody in there might be able to help his young charge that he had unintentionally been stuck with. The sniper jumped the fence near the booth and pressed his back to the thin wooden wall, going behind it to see if anybody was inside. Scarcely noticeable, his ear twitched and he picked up a voice on the other side of the wooden wall, whispering to itself in frustration. Clive smiled, so this was the person's attention he needed. Any other day he would have just bluntly strolled up and asked him sincerely for help, and he most likely would have gotten it, but Clive went a self-conscious red, if he opened his mouth to speak to somebody, they might see his tiny fangs, and _then_ what would happen? There was no way he was going to find out.

Simon twisted his rubix cube around and around, the many varying colours plainly refusing his pleas to mold themselves into a wall of a singular colour that the vendor so desperately desired. Nothing eviler in the world that existed was capable of beating the pure malice that a singular coloured cube could contain, well maybe except for some of the harder Millenium Puzzles his friend had created, designed to send perfectly normal drifters over the brink of insanity. But Simon knew how to complete each and every one of them, it was this blasted rubix cube that he couldn't figure out.

He gave up on trying to conquer the impenetrable fortress of the plastic perplexity and looked to the left and right, guilty of what he was about to do. With a nail that needed to be slightly trimmed, he peeled away a coloured sticker and momentarily slapped it on his bench, only halfway stuck to the wood, the other half dangling off the side. This was so he could reclaim the sticky paper later, after he had finished his task. Peeling and sticking, peeling and sticking, soon Simon had taken off every little coloured square until only a black twisty box remained, useless without it's paper counterparts. Snickering at his indomitable wit, he relocated each sticker to a different area of the cube, dictated by the sides of colour, until each little box on each side was alike to the brother next to it. And the puzzle was completed. Simon had won. Unfairly, that was true, but a win was a win, at least to the vendor.

Sighing, Simon set his hand on his chin and leant on the thick wooden bench attached to his booth, watching the visible gusts of sand fly by. The wind could be physically painful in this canyon without proper protection, though he had gotten quite used to it, in this season not many people chose to come here, it simply was not worth the money, man-hours and travel expenses. Nothing really very interesting existed in Dune Canyon at any rate, except for the Fortune Gear shrine, and that was a little too monster-infested for civilians to enter anyway. Simon really wished something interesting would happen, he was running out of puzzles to amuse himself with…

So the man was a little astonished when a lit and sparking bomb decided to roll down the warped and aging steps of the platform, coming to a stop near his booth, and then exploding in a mild burst of gunpowder and smoke. Simon snapped to immediate attention, leaning out of his booth directly into the sandy winds to see where that explosive had come from. His eyes were forced shut from the breeze, but this did not stop him, he gracefully leapt out from the booth and hopped up the stairs, to where the mine must have originated from. He briefly heard a tiny scuffing of rocks scraping against another surface that vanished almost as quickly as he heard it, but the vendor's concentration was directed elsewhere.

What he found was one of his closet colleagues beaten up and lying senseless on the dusty platform, limp and motionless except for a steady and consistent breathing keeping him alive. Simon gasped and grabbed Tony by the arm, struggling to pull the younger man to his feet. Who in the world had done this? He had not heard or seen anybody else, the train that arrived from the East Highlands was bereft of all passengers, had there been a hijacking, or something? Simon looked down on his friend and decided that it wasn't very important, helping the injured boy was. Raising an eyebrow, the vendor had found a new perplexing mystery to figure out, who had beaten up the kindly young man, and then had chosen to heal him soon afterward? He could smell a little of the pungent mega berry juice applied to the bruising, and he shook his head in wonderment. His day had suddenly gotten a lot more interesting.

By the time Simon had gotten Tony to a more stable state of health and helped him to regain consciousness in the shack reserved only for certain employees, Clive had already slipped past them without effort or risk, just another moving blot on the far horizon.


	30. Tag

His thick and sturdy black boots found easy footholds on the craggy boulders that made up the quarry sitting within the very heart of Dune Canyon. He moved up and up, going even higher, closely following the little girl that was doing everything in her power to lead him on a phony trail. Kaitlyn giggled, running ahead and Ravendor slowed his pace just enough for the girl to have a fighting chance at escape, keeping her amused. It was the only reason he had allowed himself to participate in this twisting version of tag in the first place, to occupy both of their time until the sun would go down and they could rest properly.

"You can't catch me, Uncle Ravendor!" She called in a sing song voice, ducking behind a unique rock formation and laughing all the while, "You can't!" Her little shoes scrabbled on the pebbles wedged between the larger stones, the child's only thought being how she could win the game they were playing. Not only Ravendor, she also had to watch out for Dario, who she had lost track of a few minutes ago. Kaitlyn hugged herself to the largest boulder she could find and tried to be invisible, hoping her plan would work.

"We shall see!" Came the faint reply from below, the bandit leader brushing aside his dark fringe for the umpteenth time that day and grabbing another rock for balance with his pale and immaculate hands. The center of the quarry went up like an unstable tower to the sky, filled with many holes that small children could easily hide in. Had Kaitlyn chosen to hide? No, he could still hear her giggling up ahead, behind those large boulders. Ravendor smiled. Children, he had always liked children, though he never got the chance to sire any of his own. Kaitlyn was very sweet, just like Catherine, if it were not for all the misfortune he had accumulated in his life, nostalgia would have taken him back to when he used to tag his own lost friends back in Little Twister, so long ago.

xxx

He ran, diving behind a great brown crate, his little chest heaving with the effort and strain his flight had taken from him. He looked to the left and right, the streets around him bare and empty. The child smiled through slight gasping, he had made it there undetected and they'd _never_ find him now. Ravendor peeped over the top of the crate in anxiety, getting it in his head to pull off the top and hide within the wooden boards, waiting until they gave up the search for him. He was good at this, he could not lose.

A smaller box was next to the large crate and he set his foot upon the obstacle like a step, using both of his small hands to pry open the lid of the crate and slip himself inside. Luckily, the top was not nailed down and it only took a bare amount of exertion to jimmy it open, the distinct scent of apples rising from the box. It must have been used to store fresh produce or cider in the past, but all Ravendor needed it for now was some good cover. He set one leg in the crate, still holding up the lid and looking down into the dark confines, hoping it was not infested with bugs and slimy things.

Then, from out of nowhere, somebody jumped on him, grabbing the boy around the shoulders and hurling him to the ground. They both stumbled and fell into the crate together, sending several rotten apple cores flying into the air. The lid came down with an ambient slam, locking them into the darkness and poignant smell of rotting fruit, producing groans of revulsion from both of the children.

In the darkness, Ravendor was poked sharply with a tiny finger, feeling somebody smaller than him sitting discourteously on his stomach. "I got you! You're 'it'!" Said a voice, poking him over and over again, appearing to be unconcerned about the garbage that they sat in. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Swanky!"

Ravendor groaned, wiping away applesauce from off his face, eyes squeezed closed at the horrid smell. Apples were nice, but _this_ was just overpowering. "Not fair!" He argued, pushing the other child off his body and into a corner of the crate. "You cheated! Jumping off the roof is not allowed!" He was going to win too, he hated it when other people decided play unfairly.

"Nuh-uh! I didn't jump, I fell! Just ask Cathy, she saw it all!" Came the vehement protest, upset at being labeled a cheater. Another person from the outside pulled the lid off the crate and let sunshine into the chamber, illuminating the two boys sitting squarely in a pile of rotten apples. The duo looked sharply away at the sudden light, temporarily blinding them. A feminine face popped up at the rim of the box, light chestnut hair framing her soft grey eyes. She blinked at the two children lying in the trash and laughed happily, pointing at them and their misfortune.

Grumbling, Ravendor stood up and picked an apple peel out of his hair, glaring down at his younger accomplice. "Go ahead, laugh. I will get you all, someday. Just you wait!" The other boy sunk lower into the rotten fruit, not caring how stinky he got and grinning like an idiot, grass-green hair blotched with brownish apple sauce.

"I still won." He said simply.

"Not quite." Catherine interrupted, offering her hand to Ravendor so he could climb out. She grimaced when their hands connected, his was slimy from all the compost inside. No wonder he looked so upset, the boy had a weird _thing_ about keeping himself clean. Well, he was the son of an aristocrat, it probably could not be helped, she thought. "I saw you, you know. You were gonna jump off the roof and squish him, but you tripped and fell. So…" She looked thoughtfully adorable for a few seconds, "It's a draw."

"Judas!" The other boy cried, pointing to Catherine. "You're 'sposed to be on _my_ side!" He stood up straight, but his short height only made it possible for his clear blue eyes to be seen over the edge of the crate. "You're all against me. I just know it! Agghhh…" He fell back into the crate melodramatically, a squidging sound occurring as he hit the floor.

Ravendor clambered back down to the streets of Little Twister, removing pieces of garbage from his shirt. He had an apple core in one hand and he threw it back into the crate, hitting something delicate enough to hear an 'Ow!' emanate from the box. "I am always part of the winning side, you know. Do not take it personally, my friend."

Quicker than lightning, the boy hopped up and took the edge of the lid, dragging it halfway over the crate. "Fine, fine! I give up, you win. But!" He added loudly, sticking a hand high in the air and ducking into the shadows of the crate, "I'm just gonna sit here, with the apples, my _only_ friends, and plan your death, Swanky! You too, Catherine! Be afraid!" He laughed and re-sealed himself in his temporary tomb, giving the others something to think about.

Catherine sighed. For a nine year old boy, Clive was certainly acting hyper today. He must have been studying too hard and needed a break, or something. Shrugging, she explained this to Ravendor and found the older child totally agreeing with her. The girl rapped on the side of the box with her knuckles, like she was knocking on a door. "Don't you have a class this afternoon?" She asked with false innocence in her voice, wanting to see his reaction.

His reply was muffled. "Screw it. I'll go tomorrow. Good night!" They could get no reply from him no matter how hard they tried, and when Ravendor attempted to open the lid for himself, Clive threw apple cores at him until he went away, sniggering evilly.

xxx

Ah, memories. Memories were all the dark-haired drifter had left, the only pleasant things left in his life. But, it was stupid to think of such things right now, not when he had a job to do, aspirations and plans to take care of. Keeping Kaitlyn happy was one of them, and so Ravendor levered himself up the boulder with notable strength and wondered how Kaitlyn had managed to climb up here with just those short little legs to help her. Children these days sure had a lot of energy.

Kaitlyn heard Ravendor scaling up to her platform and knew she had to move again, or she would be caught. Trying to be both quiet and swift at the same time, she crouched to reduce her height and used a long rock for cover as she ducked behind it, making her way to another rock formation, lower than the first but harder for an adult-sized human to get to. The pain in her knee vanished almost instantly as soon as she had decided that a game would be the best way to pass the time until nightfall, and she became beyond happy that her Uncle Ravendor and the nice Mister Dario agreed to play with her. Tag was her favorite game, and it caused to fully grown men to run around like loonies trying to catch her. True to her competitive nature, Kaitlyn aspired to make this as difficult for them as possible.

Because she was not looking behind her, too busy observing the bandit leader slowly catching up, Kaitlyn was beyond shocked when she bumped straight into somebody wearing a dirty white shirt and suspenders, scratching his beard thoughtfully and grinning. "Got you!" Dario cried, reaching out with his large hands to grab the girl in victory. "Hey Boss, I got her!"

Dario was a little confused when his hands only made contact with air, and he waved them around a bit, trying to find the girl that had gone missing. Ravendor appeared from behind the rock, his breath a little heavy from all the chasing. He really needed to cut down on his smoking habit, it was affecting his stamina. "Did you find her?" He asked, kicking a rounded pebble away with his foot.

"Well, uh, I did for a second, but then she got away." He admitted, tilting his cowboy hat back a little bit and wiping away the sweat that ran down his face with a hairy arm. "You see where she went?"

"She could not have gotten far." Ravendor assured his minion, looking down the jagged quarry face and onto the more level lands surrounding it. Romero and Antonio were waiting down there together for the others to return, keeping themselves out of the game and being quite content to chat with each other. They had ten years worth of history to catch up on. Blankets were spread out, flint and tinder were readied, and all they needed now was the fall of darkness to envelop the world. Knowing that Kaitlyn was close, but not wanting to show it, Ravendor cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled loudly so that his words echoed off the stones encircling them, trying not to smile. He was quite aware that Kaitlyn was less than a few feet away. "You cannot escape, little one!" He called, "Surrender now, and I shall be lenient!"

"What's 'lenient' mean?" Dario asked himself, a confused look passing across his face. He shrugged, big words were beyond him. The bandit rubbed his arm and looked around, where had Kaitlyn gotten to so quickly, without him even seeing her departure? Little kids, they could hide themselves so easily, just like… Dario coughed, interrupting his own chain of thought. He had already gotten over that, no need to walk down _that_ path any more than he needed to, it had no bearing on his life, not within the here and now.

"No!" Came the rebellious reply from very close to where they stood, "You're 'it', and you're gonna _stay_ 'it'!" Kaitlyn flattened herself out in the long and small hole she had found, a wide smile on her face. The adults were much too big to follow her into her perfect hiding space, and it's entrance was very well concealed in the first place. Kaitlyn knew she was going to win. Lifting her head up a bit, she could see Ravendor's boot and the folds of his jacket from the hole's opening, trying hard not to giggle and give her location away. It was thanks to Romero that she had thought of this strategy, he did have a good idea and it transferred perfectly into her game of tag. She was going to win.

Fanning some air into his face with his cowboy hat, Dario looked futilely around for the source of Kaitlyn's voice, missing her position entirely. He was looking up and around, not down and below. Perhaps if he thought laterally, he may have had a better chance at finding her. "Maybe we should just let her win, Boss." He suggested helpfully, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ravendor shook his head silently and pressed a finger to his lips, smirking. He then pointed quickly to a little niche about a yard away, on a level a few inches lower than their own. He mouthed out a sentence, but made no noise, thinking that Dario should at least get the gist of what he was saying. "She is down there." Concentrating for a second and trying his best to lip-read him, Dario eventually understood and nodded, tip-toeing over to where Kaitlyn hid, Ravendor closely following him.

"Heeey!" Romero hollered from the campsite, yelling at the two men far away and on the quarry mountain, "You done playing brat control yet?!" Somebody aimed right and threw a small rock at him, scoring a perfect hit on the blonde bandit's head. He fell over soundly and Antonio snickered, poking Romero's body with a stick. The newest bandit did not see who had thrown the missile, but he could see Dario chuckling evilly up atop the rocks.

Kaitlyn went rigidly still, hearing Dario's chuckles just outside her hiding place. They were going to find her! She had to escape! Her grey eyes blinked in the shadow of her mini cave, she looked around for another way out, behind, to the side, nothing. All there was to be used was the way she had climbed in, and if she utilized that, they would see her in a matter of seconds. Kaitlyn was trapped.

She crept back a bit, startled when Ravendor got to his knees and peeked into her small confine, regarding her with an unruffled countenance. "I win," He said simply, brushing some hair behind his ear, "Now come out of there, it is no place for a little girl."

The girl shook her head, by the rules, they were still playing the game. "You haven't tagged me yet, Uncle Ravendor." She informed him candidly, pushing herself back deeper into the cave, far enough so she could not be reached. "You have to tag me first." Her foot brushed against a cobweb and it got stuck to her stocking, but she didn't care. She would rather win.

The dark-haired man disappeared momentarily from her sight and Kaitlyn became worried for a bit, wondering where he went. Outside, he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket so it would not be dirtied before pushing his arm into the hole and gently tapping Kaitlyn, beating the child at her own game. "There. You are 'it', and I win." The child huffed, finally conceding defeat. She took a hold of his hand and let Ravendor pull her out of the hiding place, slightly grubby from the unclean condition of the tunnel. She dusted off her dress again and fixed up the only blue ribbon she had left, trying to keep herself tidy.

Half of her Band-Aid had peeled off, and Kaitlyn smoothed it back onto her leg, the sticky part still working pretty well. Her eyes went up to Ravendor, and they paused when they passed over his bare arm, making the little girl confused. "Uncle Ravendor," She asked curiously, rubbing away the dirt on her face, "Why did you write on your arm?" Ravendor looked completely blank for a moment, and had to beg her pardon, for he had no idea what she was talking about. She pointed to his left arm, the sleeve pulled up and showing an odd series of markings. They were too small to be read from her vantage point, but it looked to be a simple line of writing branded into his arm. Nothing more.

The bandit leader went slightly red, immediately tugging down the rolled up sleeve of his jacket over the branding. He laughed self-consciously and shook his head, feeling a little cold on the inside. Nobody was meant to see that, he had done something stupid. "It is nothing, Kaitlyn." He assured her, "Just a tattoo, pay it no heed."

"Really? What's it say? Can I see?" She asked again, moving over and trying to look up his jacket sleeve. Ravendor retaliated by picking up the girl and carrying her down the quarry face, back to the campsite. He looked unconcerned, but his green eyes showed the slightest amount of apprehension in his soul. Kaitlyn squirmed a bit, but let Ravendor carry her without interference, despite knowing that she was much to old to be carried like this anyway. She tolerated it, only because she had no other choice.

"Hmm, perhaps later." He replied blandly, having no intention to let anybody but himself look at that part of his body ever again. It was a stigma, a fraction of his past that could never be erased. One of the many elements of himself that he would always hate. Dario had already gone back to the encampment, using a pair of rocks to try and light a decent fire. He was getting sparks everywhere except for in the tinder, mostly spraying them all over Romero and Antonio.

Kestorael cawed out a welcome to him when he returned to the flat dusty soil again, a good few feet away from the other bandits. The bird was smart enough to know exactly when to keep his distance. He cocked his feathered head to one side and asked Ravendor a question, ruffling his feathers. The man nodded. "Yes, a good idea. Kestorael, go and scout."

"You can talk to birds?" Kaitlyn said in deep awe, watching the raven ascend into the sky.

"Hardly," Ravendor answered, his arm around her shoulders and the other supporting her legs, "I have lived with Kestorael long enough to know what he wants, it is as simple as that." The bird flew off into the west until he was only a little black dot in the increasingly cloudy sky, grey overlapping blue. It was a white lie, a half-truth, Ravendor didn't think it would be a good idea to complicate matters any further by telling her the _full_ truth.

The _full_ truth could sting a man sharper than any poison, and Kaitlyn did not deserve to understand that wound, not somebody as innocent as her. Ravendor analyzed the lumpy clouds overhead, they didn't seem to be going away, and they would block out the sky and the stars tonight. Such a pity, at a time when the moon was supposed to be at it's fullest, it's most beautiful phase.

He had been looking forward to seeing it in all it's splendour.


	31. Black As Sin, Red As Blood

The vegetable and fish stew bubbled contentedly in it's cast iron pot, streams of heavenly scent wafting from the brownish broth, containing the biting aroma of herbs and rare spices. With a wooden spoon, Gallows stirred the mixture thoughtfully, taking over Shane's job as cook because he was far better at it. The younger Baskar did not mind, it meant that his afternoon meal would be particularly more sumptuous than he had hoped for. Gallows was the arguably the best cook in all of Baskar Colony.

They all surrounded the inextinguishable fire, Virginia, Catherine and Gallows, sitting down politely on their knees and waiting for the food to be done. Jet and Shane balanced on the small ledge near the stone steps in Gallows's house, swinging their legs off the side. The smoke from the fire got a little bit in their faces, but by the time it reached the two youths, it was thin enough not to be noticed. Halle remained standing up, the center of all their attention, with one hand to her back so she could keep her balance. She had ushered all of them back into the front part of the house, out of the totem shrine as soon as Virginia had informed her that something _deeply_ important needed to be explained and figured out. Halle waited for the explanation with patience, hearing the stew gurgle warmly as a background noise.

Virginia uttered a long and drawn-out sigh, it was time for the moment of truth, and the recounting of the story that weighed heavily on her conscience. This wasn't fair, the demons were defeated, why were they being forced into conflict with that race again, to make matters worse, when that one demon was none other than one of her dearest friends? Her sighed deepened, looking towards the other woman sitting across from her and the fire. If this affected herself so badly, how would Catherine react? "Well," She said in a solemn tone, "Something has happened recently that none of us would have ever predicted or imagined, it goes beyond what some of you might know, and it will affect us all." Virginia laced her white gloved hands together, trying to express her knowledge into words. "A demon has risen on our Filgaia once more, another one, but an individual that we can't bring ourselves to harm."

Shane's legs froze in mid swing, unsure that he had heard Virginia correctly. "A demon?!" He gasped, leaning forward on his precarious ledge, craning his neck to look more closely at the female drifter, "How? I thought you all got rid of them, sealing them away from this world forever. Big Brother!" He turned to Gallows who was tasting the experimentation of the stew timidly, "Is this true?"

"We're thinkin' so." Gallows informed his little brother, the wooden spoon in one hand dripping a small trail of stew between his fingers. "The mediums say he's a demon, and you know they just don't lie, but there's a little something different about this one, no doubt about that." He plunged the spoon into the stew, allowing it to simmer without any hindrance. "Granny, you getting this?"

Halle gripped the head of her walking stick firmly, looking into the sober expression of the drifter team's leader. It was there she saw that Virginia could not have been lying. Honesty was written all over her face. "So, my dolt of a grandchild led you all here for some Baskarian guidance? Is that it, eh?" She implied, an unreadable expression on her face. Gallows glanced down, apparently stung by her words. It was only a mock sufferance, they threw debilitating words at each other all the time. It was a sort of unspoken recreation between the both of them, it kept both of their minds sharp.

"It was probably the best course of action we could take." Catherine cut in, adding to the conversation. "I honestly do not know what is going on at the moment, and Virginia did suppose that it would be best for us to come here for your supporting wisdom. Elder, as one yet unacquainted with the peril we face, and only half-knowledgeable of the losses we could incur, I wish you would listen to our leader's story with an objective and unbiased frame of mind. It is the only way we could have a proper understanding without any hindrance."

Nodding to the silver-haired boy listening quietly, Virginia gave him one basic order. "Jet, show Shane the fang you picked up the other day. See if he can tell us anything about it." It took Jet a moment to react to her request, looking like his mind had been occupied with inner problems. Still, he fished around in his pocket for a few seconds, once again pulling out the long white monster fang and passing it roughly to the youth who sat next to him. He was glad to see it go, the point of the tooth had been biting into the side of his leg uncomfortably when it was shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

The pillar's jade-coloured eyes analyzed the fang carefully, observing the broken off end and trailing to the curved edge of the tooth, coming to an end that was deathly pointed and lethal. It was hard to recognize, but it did look familiar to him, maybe if he were to string it to a silver chain and add some ornamental features, it might just look a little like…

He dropped the fang with a startled gulp, his slightly tanned hands going up to cover his face in shock. It was unlike anything he had ever expected before, there was only supposed to be _one_ of them in the world, no-one had ever gotten close enough to secure a second before, to try and claim one would be far too dangerous and life-threatening. And yet, here it was, priceless beyond all treasures. "T-The Fang of Luceid!" He stuttered, vehemently shaking his head, plait swishing around behind him, "How in the world did you get a hold of this?!"

"We think," Said Virginia quietly, "That it came from the animal that created the demon I was talking about. Give me a sec, and I'll explain." She smoothed out her purplish dress, severely needing to be washed and ironed. Maybe if they had a little time left, she might be able get a new change of clothes. It was a heartening thought, but one only barely registering in her mind. Ever since they had left the Winslett household at the peak of noon, she had been planning this short speech and reciting it over and over again in her mind. She had to get this perfect, the others needed to understand.

Clive had always been the one capable of creating a good explanation, but with his absence, Virginia tried her best to take over. "The other day, our drifting team here undertook a mission for one of the residents of Jolly Roger, we were commissioned to exterminate a monster living close by to the town, one that had been unsuccessfully attacking travelers on the way to the port. After some thought, we accepted and headed out to destroy the fiend, this took place two days ago, on the eve of Halloween."

"The night of the Spirit Sabbath… Where the realm of Guardian, Spirit and mortal are blurred." Halle muttered to herself, stroking her chin. Virginia paused to let her speak, but she just grinned and directed her on. "Don't mind my ramblings, dearie. Go ahead, continue."

At her prompt, Virginia began to speak again. "When we reached the den of the monster, we all split up to search individually, forsaking the safety in numbers principle. I guess it would've been easier to fight as a team, but covering more ground was what we really needed to do, so splitting up seemed to be the best option for all of us. Clive was the one who encountered the beast, dueling it single-handedly and _somehow_ managing to come out as the winner. But," She added, staring into the flames and glowing embers, "He got badly hurt and fell into a coma for the rest of the night."

"Was he alright?" Catherine asked, paying close attention to the story. The fang rolled to a stop near her knees and she picked up the object, running a finger along the smooth white enamel. To her, it looked like a simple beast fang, she could not really see why it would have such a dire effect on people like Shane. The Fang of Luceid, that was what he called it… What connection did it have with this demon they were talking about?

"Yes, he recovered early the next morning." Virginia assured Catherine with a smile, looking over to see if the two uninformed Baskars were still listening or not. "But he was still pretty weak and all that, he could barely stand up for a while. Our medic here treated him," She pointed to the priest who was grinning proudly, "Fortunately, the only injury he sustained was a mauling bite to the shoulder. Gallows dislodged that fang from Clive's wound while he was cleaning it, the tooth must have broken off during the fight, or something. Anyway, after that, things started to act funny with Clive." She set her hands in her lap, bowing her head. "He started to zone out a lot and the horses were downright afraid of him. Sometime around midday yesterday, I gave him my gun so he could inspect it and he burnt himself as if the metal was on fire. I know it sounds weird, but it's the truth."

Shane had his hand on his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. "Your weapon, it wouldn't happen to be made of silver, would it?" He said mirthlessly, looking at Virginia's rose patterned holster. What he had heard so far was giving him the smallest traces of an idea, some inkling on what she was going on about, and it was _not_ a good thing. The young Baskar fiercely hoped that he was mistaken.

She drew one of her guns out, the Rapier EZ pistol, and held it flat in her hand so everyone could see. It worked properly now, maybe a little erratically at the most, but because of the quick repair Clive gave it, the gun had stopped misfiring. "It has a silver plating on it, yes." Virginia replied, nodding curtly. "My father gave it to me as a gift before he left for the wastelands, so it's a very special keepsake." The coating of silver shimmered in the firelight, casting an orange and crimson reflection on the short barrel, intricately beautiful.

"Then," Gallows said, taking over, "He was kinda alright for the rest of the day, until the sun started to go down and it looked like he had caught a bad case of anemia, he went all weak, started hallucinating and ran a nasty fever. We used an Arcana to break the high temperature, but he blacked out again and entered a state of paralysis. After the sun went down, he could barely move an inch. I made him that aural liquor you showed me, Shane, but it didn't seem to have any real effect at all. We all thought that Clive was really, _really_ sick."

"All this from just a simple bite?" Catherine looked a little skeptical at the details of Clive's injury. Speaking logically, a shoulder wound could cause a severely bad infection, but would not harbor all the symptoms the other drifters were describing to her. One couldn't just develop dire anemia after only a day's passage, could they? Clive's constitution had always been rather resilient, he had taken more than his share of gunshot wounds before, the person they were describing didn't seem to be her husband at all.

The storytelling shifted back to Virginia as she slipped her gun back into it's rightful case, giving it one deft spin in habitual luck-making. "We tried to make it to Claiborne before the sun went down, so we could take Clive to see a proper doctor, but we found ourselves stuck in the middle of the Westwood Plains when it was too dark to continue. We set up camp near this huge cliff side and hoped for the best until morning." She sighed again, getting to the part in her tale that made her mind falter as she tried to sort it out. There were some things she just did not understand. "The next day, Clive went missing. We couldn't find him anywhere." Virginia said this bluntly, attempting to speak any further with emotion made her throat tighten up almost painfully, so she dropped the entire concept and put on a strange robotic air, trying to stay indifferent.

"He went _missing?_" Catherine said, concerned. "What happened? He was not in danger, was he?"

__

Oh, Guardians, no. If anything, it was the exact opposite. She thought to herself, frowning. Three separate cold-blooded murders, and he had willingly confessed to the crime. Clive was the one who had shredded three men to ribbons, slashed them open and wrenched out their insides, painting a whole stable house with blood. Shuddering, she could not help but wonder what Volks's, Dessinsey's and Otto's last few moments of life must have been like. Not to mention Pike, he would have to get his leg amputated, forced to bear a mortifying disfigurement for the rest of his life. Clive had always been the one to offer her comforting words whenever she felt sad or down, and to know that murder stained his soul black with sin, it was just too distressing to think about.

"After a little bit of tracking on Jet's part," She indicated the young android with a hand, "We found him a little ways off from Claiborne, pretty much unharmed, but… he was different now. It's hard to describe, but the best word I could think of to explain it is; Clive had been _modified_." Multitudes of clueless looks were shot in her direction and she blushed, really hating public speaking.

Seeing this clearly, Gallows silently volunteered to take the heat off Virginia's mind. "He was drenched in blood, and looked to be... _different_." He said resolutely, still stirring the stew as he spoke. "And when we woke him up, he was feeling and looked a hundred times better than the night before, asides from all the blood and stuff. It was my guess that he caught a twenty-four-hour bug, but hey, as always, I was wrong."

Like a game of tennis, Virginia picked up the loose ends of the story from Gallows and continued, finding it somehow easier to explain things this way. She was grateful that Gallows would help her in this way. Without support, she wouldn't be nearly as composed as she was right now. "Even though Clive seemed to be cured, we went to Claiborne anyway for business purposes, to collect our bounty. We also wanted Clive to get a checkup, just in case. What we saw in that town, early this morning, I don't think I'll ever get the images out of my head, I might have nightmares about them for years to come."

Catherine had a fold of her dress between her hands, slowly twisting the fabric into wrinkly knots and biting her lip hard enough to break the skin. All this pain, this suffering, she had never even known about it. Was that why Clive looked so exhausted when he set out for the wasteland again? He pushed himself far too hard. What on Filgaia had happened to him? What did Virginia mean by _modified_?

Before Gallows could cut in, Virginia continued with a strained edge in her voice, even talking about it was hard. "Not counting all the injured, there was a triple homicide in Claiborne last night. Unlike just a simple series of murder, the bodies were… they were decimated. Those poor men, they hardly even looked like humans anymore, they were so ripped up and destroyed. A young boy was crippled and a dozen suffered minor wounds. It was so… horrible. Of course, it was the demon we were talking about who did all this, he did it without pity or remorse."

"As history has dictated, all demons are killing machines." Said Shane knowledgeably, trying not to think about what those bodies had looked like. He blanched as Virginia shot him a venomous glare, as if the Baskar had just insulted somebody she cared about, which he had. Tears were beading in her eyes, Gallows put a muscular arm around her in condolence.

"I know. I know what you're saying is true… but… I still really can't believe it, even now. I've witnessed for myself how they kill and destroy all they see, everyone they interact with. Demons are, demons are…" She inhaled a huge breath of air for confidence, hating the words she was forced to say, to get rid of the denial that resided deep within her. "They are machines. They have no hearts, and no souls."

"I don't understand." Catherine said, her anxiety becoming a small flicker of fear. What had been going on while her back was turned, while she worried over her daughter's life? So much more had happened, so many miserable things. But there was one thing she could not place, and she had to ask, it was the only way to find her answer. However, instinct told her that the information would be as excruciating as a sword stroke to the heart. "What does this have to do with Clive?" She almost trembled, the answer was only a few words away.

Feeling herself to be like a lost little girl once more, Virginia started to cry, streams of crystal tears falling down her cheeks. She was nearly silent in the shedding of grief, except for the uneven breaths taken, a hand moving to cover her face. She had lost another one, another friend. Just like her father, Clive had gone, and he probably wasn't coming back. "Catherine," She said, swallowing her sorrow for a few short moments to speak, "I'm sorry. We tried to think of anything to help, and I'm sorry."

The monster fang rolled out of her hand by loose fingers, all the muscles in her body felt entirely numb. Her other hand shaking, she brushed back some of her light brown hair, her kind face ashen. Her husband had been so cold, she could feel nothing, no warmth, only a strange aura that hinted of someone else. Her own eyes misted over, dreading the truth that Virginia had kept hidden from her until now. "You are saying-"

"Yes," Said Virginia, leaning into Gallows and letting her tears run down her face, "Clive is… the demon."


	32. Lycanthrope

Catherine clutched the hem of her dress so tightly that it made her knuckles turn a snowy white. She could hear Virginia taking shaking breaths near her, and Gallows's deep voice trying to tell the young girl to cheer up, that things weren't as bad as they seemed. Did he think she was a fool, how could anyone believe such prattled nonsense? Though she searched deep within her heart, Catherine could not find the trigger in her body that would make her cry. She couldn't cry, even if it felt like her soul had been gutted by a rusty knife. Clive was a demon, one of the beings from folklore, whispered rumors scribed in the darkest ruins the only indicator that creatures of that kind had ever existed. This drifter team had fought the demons before, though she had been very far away when it happened, and fate wished them to do it all over again. But Virginia had a point, how could they dispel this threat when the monster in question was so close to their hearts?

"I… I see." She said, voice sounding forced and strained, "It does make sense. But how did this metamorphosis occur? I cannot discern in your story what it was precisely that changed my husband so. By a simple bite? I cannot believe that."

"Just a second," Halle interrupted, the end of her walking stick thunking on the ground as she tapped it, "I listened very well to your tale, young lady, with an 'unbiased' frame of mind." She nodded to Catherine for the use of the word, her aged face creasing into a smile. "And what I see is… well… what exactly did the demon look like?" Gallows looked sheepish and rubbed the back of his neck as her gaze shifted to him for an answer, which of course, he could give no first-hand account of.

"None of us really saw Clive in action," He admitted meekly, "But a guy in Claiborne gave us a description, is that good enough?" Halle lowered her eyebrows and did not reply, glaring steadily at the Baskar in intimidation. The youth made a noise that sounded like 'erk!' and continued without interference. He stood up and randomly guessed Clive's height, holding a hand up as an indicator and biting his lip in thought. "He's about this high… yeah… and the kid, Pike, said that he looked to be some weird combination of a wolf and a human, with really nasty sharp teeth and claws."

By then, the stew was done and ready to be eaten, but all the occupants of the house had forgotten about it's presence, were it not for the fire burning underneath the iron pot, it would have quickly gone cold. Taking very small steps towards the man standing up and still trying to see if he had gotten the height estimation right, Halle shifted her grip in the walking stick so that she held the thin end piece, and whapped Gallows callously over the head, showing her opinion physically. "You insurmountable buffoon!" She roared in a manner that would make Justine himself proud, "I just can't comprehend how dense you really are! Are you _blind_?! Why didn't you tell us sooner that you had a _lycanthrope_ in your custody, don't you know what you've let loose in Filgaia?!"

Gallows deflected the second hit with his broad hands, holding them protectively over his head and cowering. "Owch! Hey Granny, stop! What the heck are you talking about?" Halle lowered her stick and set it as her crutch again, disgusted at the continual lack of study her grandson seemed to show. Hobbling back to her original place, she took the pot away from the fire before the stew inside could burn, setting it down next to Catherine so the broth could settle. It didn't look like they would be eating any time soon. This whole confusing mess needed to be sorted out first.

Shane spoke up. "I guessed it from the very beginning," He said, wringing his plait nervously, "That this singular fang was the indicator of a new lycan spawned, it has been over four hundred years, I think, since this last has happened." Catherine reclaimed the fang she had dropped and looked at it in wonderment as Shane continued to explain. "A lycanthrope is a man who is in the transitional stage between wolf and humanity, it is a short and vicious cycle, created by a spiritual infection brought about by the Guardian of desire herself, Luceid. These cursed souls, they are stripped of morality and reason, existing only for the desire that burns deep within their soul. They can eat only the flesh of animals, monsters or humans, and the metal silver, a symbol of purity, burns them like scalding acid. Do you want me to explain further?"

Things became a little clearer for Catherine. "Infection? One that can be spread, say, from a bite wound?" The pillar of Baskar nodded, surprised at the sudden calm that had overshadowed the woman. Her grief had been only a little more than fleeting, now she just looked genuinely curious over the matter. He got the picture after a second, Catherine wanted to know more so she could help Clive, immersing herself in pity would accomplish nothing. Shane felt a strange respect for the drifter, at how she could stay so strong.

"Ohhh…" Gallows drawled, having a revelation as some fragments of his long lost folklore studies ran back to him on proverbial silver wings. He remembered the lycanthropes, the mythical suitors of the desire Guardian. Well, he only recalled a bit of the information, and decided to let Shane speak, for he knew the stuff better anyway. But the infection part, he remembered that pretty well. "The infection thing is like a virus Arcana, it travels through the blood and makes weird changes to the body. I guess you could call it a Guardian-generated nanomachine. Interaction by blood or spit from the lycan to a different body spreads the illness. A scratch won't hurt you, but a bite could really do the job."

"Ah, _now_ you remember, big Brother." Shane said to Gallows, retaining at least _some_ hope that the older Baskar could make it to be a true priest someday. The young boy held up three fingers, drawing attention to his hand. "The state of lycanthrope lasts for approximately three days, three nights of the full moon. It is the moon that triggers the transformation, a frightening lunacy that can not be subdued by any outside force. The first night is the establishment of the new form, while the second is the reinforcement of the acquired power. The third and final night," His face grew grim, "Will bind him to his fate for all eternity, because after that, he can no longer return to his human form."

"From what Virginia has told us, chronologically speaking, tonight will be the second transformation, so we still have a little bit of time." Catherine looked at their young leader, still leaning against Gallows and trying to stifle the hiccups in her chest that she would not let out. The poor girl, loss was difficult on her, but Catherine wished she had the ability to show her feelings as openly as Virginia did, to vent the horrid distress boiling in her heart.

"One other thing," Shane continued, "Even outside of the nocturnal transformation, his body will still attempt to shift to a lupine structure, but much more gradually than a sudden transformation. According to the myths passed down to us from history, it seems that an increase in stress or torment will cause the change to happen faster. I'm really sorry to say this but…" He hung his head. "Any bodily modifications made out of the nightly metamorphosis will be permanent."

"So time is of the essence." Catherine concluded, folding her arms. How far along the track had Clive gotten so far? The next time they would meet, would she even recognize him? A lump built in her throat, but she swallowed it down hard and ignored the irritating burning behind her saddened eyes. "How do we fix this curse? There must be a way." Shane had said only a certain part would be 'permanent', which meant that there must be some existing way to cure her husband. She had to find out how.

Turning around sluggishly to face the bricked-up wall, Halle set her stick against the structure momentarily, deftly moving her fingers over each brick and counting under her breath. She paused suddenly and pulled out a block of granite, hiding a secret compartment behind the wall. A wooden box slid out, complex artistic Baskar patterns covering every inch of the case. It looked very old, but not old enough to be completely ancient yet. The old woman held the box out to Catherine, lifting the cover. "There's a red carton in there. Find it for me please, dearie. My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Catherine sifted through the arcane materials within the box, coming across burial tags, feathers of remarkable hue, an old golden locket with a feminine face inside, and finally the red carton hidden underneath all the other unusual junk. She removed it and Halle quickly closed the container, stashing it away in it's place within the wall. The drifter analyzed the carton delicately, it was very heavy for it's size and weighed down her hands. What was inside? Flicking open the lid like one would open a packet of cigarettes, she tapped many small objects into the palm of her hand, metallic and shining in the light. Jet and Shane looked over her shoulder, catching only a glimpse of the enigmatic items. Silver bullets.

"The lycanthrope is a very dangerous animal, many have fought it in the past, dying needlessly and messily. But it is easier than you may think to bring one down, a single shot with one of those bullets loaded into your ARMs will swiftly end it's life. There is no other way to beat it in a fight." The Baskar Elder explained tonelessly, leaning on her ever-present crutch. Catherine's eyes held an empty expression as she looked down upon the cylindrical pieces of ammunition, as if she was looking into the face of sadness itself, the emotion so strong that it could not be shown physically.

After being silent for far too long, Virginia finally exploded into action, standing bolt upright and almost knocking Gallows over. "So, you're saying that we should just kill him?! Kill Clive, our dear friend?! How can you stand here and expect us to _do_ something like that?! We can't! I can't!" Her arms were shaking fiercely by her sides as she spoke, her white-gloved hands clenched in anger. "We have to help him, not hurt him. If we turn to violence in order to solve our problems, then we're no better then those who hurt others themselves."

Halle turned the brunt of her wrath to Virginia, overlooking Gallows for the first time because he wasn't actually doing anything stupid anymore. He had the sense to shut up. "And how do you expect to do that?!" The bottom of her stick rapped the floor loudly, emphasizing her statement. "The lycanthrope will not recognize you, young lady, except for as a piece of meat to kill, to eat, or to rape. If you walked up to it, talked to it, tried to place any influence over it, then You. Will. Die."

"Stop calling Clive an 'it'!" Virginia yelled, somehow unafraid of Halle's fury and matching that anger amply by herself. "No matter what he is, be it demon, lycan or human, he is still our friend! I would sooner shoot myself than my friends!" A hand was placed on Virginia's shoulder, making the leader of their drifter team calm down. Catherine took Virginia's hand with the other and tipped several silver bullets into the palm, shaking the red carton to do so. Afterwards, she let go and walked over to Clive's rifle leaning against the wall, picking it up and prying away the full green clip with total silence. "What… are you doing?" Virginia demanded, one eyebrow raised.

The magazine came loose after a few attempts and she poked out the solid bullets, letting them fall to the floor. Shifting the ARM to one hand, she opened the red carton again and dispensed a few rounds, inserting them into the emptied clip. With an audible snap, Gungnir was reloaded with the silver ammunition, ready to be used. Catherine laid the gun back against the wall, not needing it just yet. When she faced Virginia, her eyes were wet with tears. "I love him," She said, the emotion behind those words more powerful than anything else. "More than life itself. So much, that it hurts. I cannot let Clive fall into the pits of Hell without at least _trying_ to save him. Even if this is the _only_ way to break the curse, I do believe that he would rather die with his humanity and reason intact than live forever as a beast. Please understand," Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin, "I love him too much to see him suffer."

Virginia was silent.

The youngest Baskar present slipped himself off his perch, hitting the stone floor and making a little noise. Shane forced an optimistic smile and moved to grab his big brother by the elbow, tugging gently. He scanned the two arguing women and made a quiet prayer for their good fortune. "Do not give up hope just yet!" He declared out loud, still trying to pull Gallows's muscular arm away. "Big Brother, come with me. We must consult the history texts for more information, maybe we can find something that might help." Gallows's started at the request, but for the first time in his life, he nodded docilely and allowed himself to be led away for some study, the only type of study that could help his friends. For that, he would learn as much as possible before his eyeballs fell out.

Jet was, as always, as crass as ever. "We eatin' or what?" He snorted, scratching his mop of silvery hair. Halle grinned and held up the pot of stew, now only lukewarm after the long conversation and arguments. He got down from the wall and sat next to the old woman who also took a seat, dishing up the stew into two wooden bowls for the both of them. They appeared unconcerned on the outside, but their own inner turmoil's swirled around within them, ever the introverts.

The silver bullets felt cold and hard, resting in the palm of her hand. Virginia was practically glaring at Catherine, unbelieving that what the woman had just told her was true. She intended on shooting her own husband? What kind of person was she? Out of everyone here, the drifter had expected Catherine to react the worst, from the threat of losing her _entire_ family, she was going to reassure her that everything would be okay and that they would find _some_ way to cure Clive, but this… Virginia had experienced so much cold-heartedness in her life, but she had never expected it to come from someone as warm as Catherine. Confused, she wondered what on Filgaia was going around in her head right now.

"… Kaitlyn is gone, and Clive is leaving me…" She whispered hoarsely, seeming not to focus on Virginia, but on the wall behind her. "Please, please excuse me. I believe I need some fresh air." Going just slow enough to make it look like she wasn't running, Catherine brushed past Virginia and headed for the door, the coolness of mid-afternoon enveloping the colony of Baskar.

All of a sudden, Virginia dropped the silver bullets she had been holding like they were poisonous, a tinkling clatter from their impact on the floor meeting her ears. Something inside her snapped, she choked out a broken sob and dashed quickly up the stairs, throwing herself roughly onto the first bed in sight, grabbing the grass-woven pillow and burying her tear-streaked face in it, muffling her sad whimpers. Yes, it was happening again, she cursed vehemently underneath her breath, constricted by the tears, she was losing another father, one that finally looked to be filling the void left by Werner years ago. Why did everyone she cared about leave? Why?!

Likewise to the drifter leader, as soon as Catherine stepped into the bright light of the sun, smelling the sweet autumn breeze and hearing all the Baskar folk up and about to their daily business, the stress finally became too much for the poor woman and she fell to her knees, unable to hold her tears back any longer. She cried audibly, her hands over her face, feeling ashamed at how weak she had turned out to be when her strength was needed the most. Catherine's family was gone, _he_ was gone. And, her mind flashed back to the gun waiting inside the house, she knew the task that was appointed to her, _only_ to her.

The chicks cheeped, the chickens clucked. Happily, the dog nearby chased them, tongue dangling out of it's mouth and yapping.

And Catherine cried.


	33. Premonition

The most accurate way to describe Clive's pace would be a steady and disheartening trudge, though he had attempted over and over again to try and hum something that would cheer him up, it always came up morose and gloomy, no matter what song he decided to use. The wind had decided to die down for the moment, which he welcomed graciously, but his mood had been on the downturn for hours now, and it didn't seem to be getting any better.

He peered at the ground through his glasses, watching his feet as they took the steps that lead him to his destination, determined by the particular scent in the air. The trail seemed fresher by just a little bit, but he was beyond weary and too depressed to be happy about it. Clive was chewing his lower lip anxiously, probably not a good idea in reflection, seeing he was very close to cutting it open with his fangs, and desperately wondering where all the time went. It was far too late in the day for his liking, why had that train trip taken so long?

__

Depression. I hate depression… He thought quietly to himself. _I was never the depressed one, I was always the cheerful responsible one, at least, that was what the others told me…_ _I remember,_ _it was because of depression that I nearly lost-_

Clive froze his chain of thought, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe it would have been better that way, if he had just let himself do the deed eighteen years ago, maybe it would have made them all happy, including himself. Pausing for a very short time, Clive rolled up the sleeve of his coat, looking with regret at the small scar imprinted on his arm, just above his elbow. It was a bullet wound that could never heal.

Pulling his sleeve down again, Clive continued his walk, making a mental note of which direction he was headed. The sniper already had a map drawn up in his head, he knew precisely where he was going, and _exactly_ where Ravendor was fleeing to. It was almost ironic really, the bandit leader must have figured that he would be too afraid or forgetful to follow him, but Clive was more perceptive than Ravendor gave him credit for.

__

I suppose, looking back, I have changed a lot… A fatigued shrug. _But the same seems to go for him as well, he has gotten decidedly more ruthless and sinister since we were last acquainted. That, I know, is my fault. But why did he take Kaitlyn? To get back at me, probably._

I just wish I knew if Kaitlyn was alright. There's more than one of them, bandits, I can tell by the smell of gunpowder and whiskey, but if they hurt her, I'll, I'll…

A shadow crossed his face.

__

I'll make them regret they ever felt the presence of Boomerang Flash…

A moment of uncertainty, and then he was back to normal. Abashed, Clive shook his head and kept to his march, a little fed up by irritating stickiness of the soles of his boots. That moss fungus was still with him, if not in spirit, then in bodily fluid. He would have to personally scrub the poison off his boots when he had the spare time. Small rocks and stuff were sticking to the bottom, making it hard to walk. Annoyed, Clive lifted one boot and tried to brush the pebbles away, wincing as his hand touched dirt, goo, and…

Something soft.

Curious, Clive pulled the soft thing off and looked at it, many different emotions astir in his eyes all at the same time. Relief, confusion, worry, anger, and many more, for Clive had picked up a valuable clue, one that had, almost humorously, been tracking him instead of the other way around. A small smile arose in him, he must have stepped on it unaware sometime earlier in the day and the poison had held it onto his boots, that must have been it.

Kaitlyn's blue ribbon lay docilely in his hand, both ends of the fabric flapping a bit in the weak breeze.

Folding it over a few times and placing it deep in his coat pocket, next to the beautiful black feather he had picked up, Clive furrowed his brow and immersed himself in solemn thought, scratching his head lightly. This could not have been an accident, Kaitlyn _loved_ those ribbons, the girl wouldn't have just been so careless enough to lose one in the canyon, would she? But then again, certain situations cause people to act in a manner unfamiliar to oneself, he was beginning to learn that principle all too well.

"No," Clive argued, "She is smarter than that, I know it. This is a clue, isn't it, Kaitlyn? Thank you, I know you are trying to help. I will do my best too, I promise I will find you. You can trust me." He felt a little bit foolish for talking to himself like this, but it made him feel better so he couldn't be _too_ crazy, not just yet, at the very least.

While pondering this, something nearly ancient in his brain had sent him a few insinuated messages, telling him to be careful, his senses were picking up something very close by. Slowly, Clive scanned the area, going very still and restricting his breathing to a minimum, just in case the intruder detected prey by their motions. In those situations, the best thing to do was to not move a muscle.

Behind him, some stones rolled, specifying physical motion. Something was standing behind him, and it presumably would not be very friendly. To show that he meant no harm just in case he was mistaken, Clive turned around and raised his hands slightly, staring the monster directly in the face.

The verdict, malicious intruder. Clive would have to fight.

Two things crossed his mind at exactly the same time, two thoughts that would have immediately decided his fate. The first impulse came from his human side, screaming at him to turn around and run away as fast as his legs could carry him, for he was unarmed and could not destroy a best of such magnitude without his trusty ARM present. The other, coming directly via his demon side, sent him an overpowering message to stand his ground and fight, come hell or high water, he would not throw a battle without just cause. The giant crab monstrosity bore down on him, strange protrusions from the defensively plated back twitching sinisterly in the air. His mind muddled itself trying to select the correct course of action, practically gluing Clive's feet to the ground and not letting him budge an inch. He was a sitting duck on the playing field.

__

Move, blast it! I need to move, **move**, run away!

Common sense won over and as the monster got within striking distance, his nerves unfroze themselves, allowing Clive to turn tail and flee, scrabbling over the arid rocks to safety. The mandibles of the beast snapped up and open from the plate of shell covering it's face, revealing row upon row of jagged saw-like teeth amid two great barbed pincers. It was like the mouth of an antlion, but this creature was also equipped with one great grabbing claw, capable of shearing a man in half. Unable to properly pace Clive in the regular manner of running, the crab bubbler dropped down over and lumbered after the drifter like a gorilla or grizzly bear, moving slower but reserving much more stamina.

Clive's throat was raw from the ragged breaths he took, stumbling down a slight slope and away from the beast, lurching forward as his already diminishing strength was drained out of his body far too quickly, he was just not in the right kind of shape for such a strain. Every single loose pebble he felt roll under his feet made him lose traction with the ground, making him slip countless times, ever hearing the gurgling bellow of the fiend too close behind him. The only hope he had was to create as much distance as possible between himself and the crustacean, keeping a steady gait only a few yards away. He didn't understand this, why did every single monster left in the wasteland seem to be attracted to his presence? It must be his stupid demon body, it was drawing all kinds of misfortune to add difficulty to his predicament.

Part of the slope gave way and Clive fell, rolling down the hillside and horribly bruising up his right arm, absorbing most of the impact, coated in dirt and dust. Clive rose, coughing on the air and blinking through a slight scratch on his glasses, beating out the gravel stuck to the sleeve of his coat. Only losing a few seconds and recovering very quickly, Clive pushed off again and continued his exodus, the back of his wrist moving to rub a scrape beading blood on the side of his chin. A screech, sounding closer than what Clive had guessed the beast to be pierced his eardrums, a high-pitched tone that could not be made by any docile animal. Risking a look over his shoulder, the sniper fought back panic as the _thing_ was less than six feet away, in a hot ravenous pursuit. With it's raging fury beating it's gradual lack of stamina, Clive's imminent capture was less than a few seconds away.

Realizing that he had listened to the wrong side of his battling dispositions, Clive yanked his mighty gloves back on and reached for his switchblade, the straining muscles in his legs just on the verge of giving out, he could not take much more of this. The land elevated slightly once more, up a tiny hill and acting as a good place to see the surrounding environment. He located sold rocks wedged into the dusty slope, one after the other, hopping up them like a series of stairs and cutting away the time and energy spent if he had slogged up the hill using the regular way. Stumbling on one of the flatter surfaces, Clive groaned as the stress tore a muscle in his leg away from the cartilage, he paused abruptly and clutched at his cramped leg, shaking from the pain.

To his scattered perception, everything rapidly became black and white, a sudden thumping in head screaming at him to stop and listen to his ark sceptre. 

Sweat stung his eyes and he had only one impulse driving him, forcing him to keep on running, but despite what his mind told him to do, his soul obeyed the calling of the Guardians, it was a compulsion that could _not_ be resisted. Slowly, he released his cramped leg and stared down at the monster scaling the dusty slope, growing ever closer to catching him. Light reflected off his glasses and he gritted his teeth, hands curling into fists. He smiled cruelly.

__

Kill it…

How dare it try and attack me… Does it not know what I am…?

His smile could not have become any more depraved. Forgetting all about his pain, Clive stood tall and cracked his knuckles loudly, awaiting the chance for him to strike. He wiped more blood off his chin, the black liquid condensing and going sticky. Like a madman, he walked casually down the hill to the fight that awaited him, his only weapon a short knife that was tinged with rust. He looked unconcerned, like the entire trio of prophets could walk right up to him and he'd obliterate them without a second glance.

__

Should such a weak creation defeat me, then I am not worthy to exist on this planet…

It has been too long, I must test out my strengths…

His walk broke into a run, he braced his shoulder and slammed his not inconsiderable metallic weight into the plated chest of the creature, waiting until most of the impact was absorbed into it's chest, then ramming his elbow out for a second assault. The monster staggered back a few paces, but did not lose balance and fall down as Clive had hoped. Knowing this was only a minor setback, shadowy electricity ran down his arms and he discharged a Dark Matter Arcana, enveloping the beast in a temporary haze of absolute blackness. It's two pinching claws flailed out of the sides of the dark ball of energy, indicating that whatever was going on within the solidifying shadow was extremely painful.

Grinning at the frantic squeaking noises the crab bubbler was emitting, Clive pulled out his miniature knife and sprinted into the Arcana, assured that the power of the Lust Jaw would protect him from his own spell. Time passed, several sounds of steel scraping against a tough surface escaped the shadow, the sound of something crunching, and finally, a harsh cry of pain.

The Arcana dissipated, showing Clive constricted between the twin pincers of the great crustacean, the tiny right one grabbing his waist, while the huge battle ready left claw was tightly clamped down on his left arm, squeezing all the feeling out of the limb. Clive spat out a word he hadn't said since he was a petulant student, trying with all his might to slip out of the monster's grasp. He was strong, unnaturally strong, but just not strong enough. The fire within his heart faded, the Guardian influence that channelled Boomerang leaving him defenceless. The beast drew Clive closer with it's pincers, mandibles snapping wildly in a frenzy of hunger. The canyon was practically empty of all life, the monster must be starving from the lack of fresh meat. It was happy now, it had all the fresh meat it needed right here.

Though his left hand was slowly being crushed, Clive was lucky enough to be right handed and still bore his little dagger at the ready. He swung it as hard as he could, aiming for a gap in the exoskeleton where a defensive weakness was inherent. He had studied biology before, he knew there was only one other way to destroy armour plated monsters without using the heat/cool principle, and that was to wound it at it's Achilles' heel. 

He hit orangey-red tissue instead of a shell, the knife digging into the soft flesh and sending a spurt of clear watery blood into the air. The crab bubbler screeched, bubbling it's own brand of ooze out of the wound in it's neck. Clive's finger's twitched as pain continued to shoot down his spine and left arm, he withdrew the knife and cursed again as the weapon jammed and broke off in the wound, he gripped only a useless handle now. The broken tool slipped between his fingers and a light trickle of blood ran out of the side of his mouth, feeling his own internal organs gradually being crushed.

__

I can't die yet! I still have important things to do in this world! I **won't** die yet!

Clive squared his jaw, tossing his head back and feeling the bones in his left arm getting wrung to the breaking point, his body soaked in a cold sweat. He felt himself focussing on something, an intangible thought or impetus, if anything to take his screaming mind off the destruction of his body. He had nobody to rely on, nobody would come and save him, he was alone.

__

I'm not alone! I have to save Kaitlyn, I have to… bring her back… ugh…

Dark blood was dripping out of the sleeve of his jacket, mixing with the clear and funny-smelling blood that the crab bubbler emitted. Clive's mind went hazy, and with it, a little bit of the pain began to fade away. But the haziness did not scatter his wits, somehow, they brought him closer to cohesion. "Can't… die…" He wheezed, the pressure in his mind increasing as he spoke. "N't... ytt…"

__

No! I can't! I can't!

An innermost force inside his mind was released, Clive cried a shout of rebellion, hardly noticing the subtle lightening of gravity around his body, his coat and hair floating slightly as he yelled. With all his strength he tried to free his arms, delirious rage silencing his human side and leaving only his darker half to reign supreme. It was an inferno, insurmountable power pushing down on his soul, painless, and yet an agony that he desperately wanted to be free of.

His eyes flashed open, and they were a blend of ruby red and ice blue, creating a rich mahogany colour that was full of anger. Every muscle in his body tensed as he screamed, the sound resonating in the wastelands. Many times after that moment, Clive would give more than ample contemplation to the words he uttered back then, they popped into his head and it was the only thing he could say, the only think he could think of.

"Eliminate Scanner!"

All the atoms in the crab bubbler's body were smashed together, gravity ferociously fastened itself to the creature's body, the pressure beyond severe, squeezing everything a thousand times worse than it's treatment to the metal demon, it's shrieking anguishing cry casting a pitch that would shatter glass, had any been present. From each chink in it's protective armour, clear liquid began to pour from every crease, like a soppy sponge being squeezed dry. All in all, the crab bubbler had only a few more moments to live. There was a quick and quiet 'pop', and that was that, the brain in it's head had exploded, settling back into the cranial fluids as many separate pieces.

Air flooded into his lungs again as the pincers released his aching body, waves of transparent energy pulverizing the creature in the midsection and making it squeal like it's entire body was on fire. Clive landed on his knees, arms out and hands wide open, as if he was distributing all the power he had left into the technique. His arms trembled from the damage they sustained, his left hand wet with his own oily blood. He wobbled a bit, eyes sliding closed as more blood dripped off his chin. Like a rag doll, Clive collapsed on his face, falling into a dead faint.

xxx

…And he felt himself standing up again, the air around him decidedly cooler and closer than the environment he believed himself to be in. Clive was indoors, an all encompassing greyish-blue surrounding him from all sides, the walls craggy and shaped into a rough dome, like the inside of a cave. He _was_ in a cave, but the reason for it being so was hidden. The sniper looked down at his hands, clasped around an item that was freezing cold, sharp, and very much alive.

__

Kuronegaiken… I remember you, I remember your name…

The sword, it looked a little like the one he had fought with during his unsettling dream, the one that so beautifully resembled the darker side of human morality. But this… this was _not _that sword, it was far too thin, too long, and very, _very_ sharp. The hilt was longer but basically had the same design, all the morbid engravings and everything, it made Clive think that this was the same sword, only modified.

__

Modified, hmm? I suppose… I guess… It is just like me…

He thought he had seen a weapon of this make before, not so long ago, something a little like the blade Todd always carried around, kept in a wooden sheath he vaguely remembered being called a 'Shirasaya'He blinked a couple of times, completely oblivious to where that word had come from. It sounded foreign, but at the same time, on a level very close to home. Kuronegaikenthe cold sword, the demon sword, _his_ sword. Clive looked around the area, vaguely wondering why he was suddenly somewhere else. He wasn't dreaming again, was he? He was fairly certain he had gotten over that by now.

Both of his hands were firmly clasped over the leather grip of the blade, the weapon stuck out in a battle-ready position, he seemed to be awaiting something. Like the Boomerang dream, Clive was totally unable to move at all unless another force let him, and that guiding force tensed his body, eager for battle. But the strange thing was, and he had no viable explanation for this, his fingers nearly itched to swing that sword, he _wanted _to fight, he felt that a little rumble would be a fun enough way to pass the time. But he usually did not endorse the use of violence, that niggling feeling hung ominously in the back of his mind, overpowered by a new force that wanted him to fight, and with his sword, Kuronegaikenthat was exactly what he wanted.

__

(No, no… this is not right. I do not wish to fight…)

He could hear a voice in his head, a tiny, insignificant plea that had no more of an effect on him than the blood splattered all over the dusty ground, seeping into the dirt and rocks, a blotching of dark brown on grey. Clive held his katana at the ready, a sinister smirk planted on his usually kind face. His eyes, as anticipated, were a bright crimson red. He could see his opponent, naught but a few feet away, trembling at the stoic calm he showed to the world, after all _he _had done. Her long brown plait had come loose somehow in a previous skirmish, and a deep cut to the side of her temple leaked rich blood down into her right eye, the liquid smudged away by the back of a white gloved hand. Virginia Maxwell. Knowing this, Clive did not back down.

Her gloves were beyond ruined, life fluid staining the palm and the back of her hand, her own blood, and the blood of the others he had defeated. She was still standing tall, pretty much unharmed, but tears were running down both her cheeks, her eyes murky from so much emotion that she just could not get out all at once. Her ARMs were drawn, and, he noticed with a complete lack of sane reaction, they were trained directly at his heart. Her hands were shaking, her aim was off. In this duel, she could not possibly win.

Virginia's voice mirrored her eyes, barely holding back an emotional breakdown. "You don't want to do this," She whispered, every syllable trembling, "Please, Clive. Stand down. I don't want to hurt you, please… Stop this now…" She was standing over a body, the body of a young male android. Blood poured from every bare patch of pale skin, his body was bruised from a great impact, violet eyes shut to the world. He barely breathed, and his silvery white hair was awash with streaks of blood. Gallows was a little further off, distinctly less bloody than his unfortunate friend, but in the abnormal position he was sprawled in, one could easily guess he had lost a very vital fight. However, they were both still alive.

Gripping Kuronegaiken tighter and feeling a tender sort of electricity run up his arms, a reassuring sensation that connected him completely with his weapon, Clive merely laughed nastily at the girl, shaking his head as if he had been told a rather humorous joke. "How mistaken you are, Virginia. I have every desire to finish this little duel, I seriously hope you can offer me a greater challenge than these," With the slight flick of the tip of the sword's point, he motioned to Jet and Gallows, "… _Individuals._" Removing one hand from the grip, he drew back his sword-arm and ran his finger down the edge of the blade, light enough not to draw any blood. It was far too stained with that liquid already, the frosty metal seeming to revel in the fleeting warmth, like a vampire, or a stealer of souls.

__

How boring, she will probably not live up to my expectations… But, I can derive a little fun from the attempt, oh yes…

She took a trembling step back, fingers still on the hairline of the trigger, but Clive knew that she would be too torn by her friendship to act when she should. Clive sneered, that foolish belief would cost her dearly. "Why are you doing this?" She practically sobbed, "We don't want to hurt you, please don't make us hurt you…" Her heel met with a rounded stone, she nearly tripped over it but reduced the movement to a sullen jerk, looking away from Jet's horribly beaten body.

__

(Virginia, I'm sorry. I cannot stop it, I'm sorry…)

Clive cut the air experimentally, pleased that this new sword was neither heavy nor cumbersome, traits that had hindered the handling of the old Guardian blade. The motion of the supernatural metal created an ephemeral arc of blue light in front of him, trailing the katana like it's passing shadow. Blood fell off the keen tip, a little bead of human life-force that was no more than energy to be returned to the planet. That was what it did, sinking into the earth. Clive momentarily closed his scarlet eyes, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, sighing once to relieve any inner conflict, and lunged for her, weapon ready to perform a slashing uppercut that would slit her throat unquestionably. 

Virginia stood paralysed, staring at the demon without time or inclination to move, a final few tears running down her cheeks, Jet's eyes slid closed for the very last time only inches away, her sob was like the breaking of a feather, soft, yet not entirely silent. Clive could not stop his movement, nor did he want to, the sword flew closer, a nanosecond in eternity freezing the dark blade to her neck, holding the concept in the fabric of time before letting go, the sob became a wounded cry, cut short by the flash of a blade…

xxx

He woke up with a start, his loud yell of horror echoing across the rocky wilderness. Clive clamped one hand over his wrist, the one hand that had held the sword and shuddered, the dregs of his dream still clinging firmly to his mind. He was lying over the corpse of the destroyed crab bubbler, the critical shock from the expenditure of his energy must have caused him to black out for a short while. Feeling a crushing weight on his back, Clive wearily pushed away the oversized claw pinning him down and staggered away from the loathsome corpse, hugging his twisted arm to his body. It was not broken or dislocated, but it still ached from all the pressure the crustacean had placed upon it, underneath the sleeve of his coat, his skin was a tender red marred with light bruises. 

"What did I do? I'm sorry…" He murmured to the dead monster, regretting ever having lost his temper. He initially meant to escape from it, but he had been slowed down, and _something_ else had taken over, it had become so easy to simply fight without using any deep thought, it felt better to fight, like a release that he sorely needed. The mandibles and oozing mouth were slack now, a lengthy time had passed since this creature had passed away. Judging from the smell, Clive guessed that it must have been an hour at the most.

For some obscure reason, he had totally forgotten about his dream.

Realizing that he still needed a few minutes to sit down, Clive collapsed on the ground a few feet away from the monster, the afternoon aging faster than he had ever wished to dread. Looking at his hands, he had done something with them, an ability he thought only the deceased prophets could perform, an eliminate scanner. That constricting feeling at his command, it was like he was controlling invisible forces that had crushed the very life out of his opponent. The clear juices that had run out of the crab bubbler had trickled into the sand and long evaporated, if he tried that move on a human, no, he'd hate to see the results.

__

I am running out of time. He thought despairingly, _I have no chance at catching up with them now, I have wasted far too much time on pointless endeavors, the sun will set soon… and then what?_ _I know. I know what will happen to me, to my body, but what can I do? I don't want to become a monster again…_

Clive thought hard, a hand on his chin. There was really no way he could stop it, none that he knew, it would eventually happen and remove the small fragments of sanity he had managed to salvage from his last transformation. "Maybe…" He muttered, "Maybe it will not be so bad now that I am aware of what shall occur, maybe I can prevent… the killing…"

__

And maybe pigs will fly. He argued softly with himself, brushing some green hair behind his ear. _I think I need to think logically about this, yes, it is what Catherine would have told me to do. I doubt there is anyone out here in this canyon that I cold harm, even if I had any inclination to do so, I would still have difficulty finding them. I cannot hurt people if there are no people to hurt._

He smiled, feeling a little bit better. Looking over at the corpse of the monster, he had another little idea that was both environmentally friendly and beneficial for both himself and the land. "I killed all those people for the simple fact that I would not allow myself to eat anything at all. In that… _unnatural_ form, it almost drove me crazy. What I realize at last is, if I sate that desire now before the night falls, perhaps I will be less inclined to do something… _uncivilized._"

Getting up from his short rest, Clive searched the crustacean over for a certain chink in it's armour, near the right claw, he dug into that area and pulled out the broken end of his now useless switchblade, slicked with clear runny gunk. He wiped away the slime on his coat and set the short blade between his teeth, needing both his hands free for what he was about to do next. Autumn in the canyon meant that there were innumerable dried and dead bushes dotted all over the wilderness, Clive found one after a few seconds of searching and wrapped his hands around the bunches of dead stems, tearing the deceased plant out by it's roots.

Dusting the clumps of dirt off the trailing parts of the plant, Clive returned to his original spot and drew a small circle in the dirt using the tip of his broken blade, no bigger than the size of a small garbage can lid. Satisfied with this, he scratched out a star shape in the middle, five points making contact with the outside ring and existing in perfect symmetry. He dumped the dead weeds onto the star and pocketed his blade again, holding out both his hands for a conjuring of energy. He did not have a flint, but he certainly had enough tinder, he could improvise, thanks to the Guardians.

"Cremate!"

The pentagram's purpose was important. After finding out how powerful his Arcana seemed to have become after a day's worth of existing as a demon, Clive didn't want to take any chances on summoning more than he should, and so he used the star and circle as a kind of special space to contain the firepower. It was another curious thing Gallows had shown him once. After all, he didn't want cause any unnecessary bushfires, not that there was anything worthy to burn, anyway. Obediently, the licking flames clung to the dead bush and refused to escape the drawn circle, simmering down and burning brightly.

__

I can only stop here for a little while, I have to keep going, no matter what…

The crab bubbler would simply rot away into the sand if nothing was done about disposing of the beast, it's fate to be picked apart by scavengers and other monsters, until only it's pitiful exoskeleton remained. But Clive had a better idea, it was the reason he had built the fire there in the first place. Using both his mighty gloves and his exceptional strength, Clive set one foot against the creature's right shoulder, grabbing it's smaller claw and wrenching it upward, listening to the bitter snap as bone and sinew was separated from the shoulder socket. The monster made no reaction, it was truly dead.

The metal demon talked to himself quietly as he hauled the limb back over to the fire, having no-one else to talk to. "A friend once told me," He said to the wind and the sky, "That before the Yggdrasil accident, one could fish all the time in the oceans of the world. I think… I used to do that when I was younger, though I never learnt how to swim." He sat down near the fire, the long crab claw in his lap, "From what I recall, a crustacean is supposed to be quite a delicacy. It would be better if I had some things to add to it, maybe some salt or spice, but I cannot complain, I guess."

After a little bit of preparation with the sharp edge of a knife and some campfire cooking, Clive had seafood for dinner, one that he honestly did deserve.


	34. A Half Stitched Scar

Catherine had a book in her lap, she was sitting down on the huge flat rock used as the colony's town square, next to the three long spears that protruded directly from the ground to the air. The tears has finally dried off her cheeks by the warm sunshine's guiding hand, and only a twin pair of barely noticeable trails went down from the corners of her eyes to her chin. The episode of outward grief had been acute, yet very brief, but her soul still lay wounded and weeping on the inside.

However, that was how Catherine wished it to stay. If Virginia could not keep a clear and tear-free face, then Catherine had no choice but to do it in her place. Other than that, she had nothing left to do whilst the Baskar brothers performed their investigation into the ancient texts. The woman fiercely wished that she could help them, she was good at gathering and sorting information, but she suffered from the handicap of not understanding the Baskar written language, a discomforting sensation. She really wished that she could help.

__

Clive, Honey, I wish that I could help you, I wish that I could do **something**! Nobody should ever… face this peril alone…

And she would probably have to face him soon, as the being that he was, a demon of Hiades. It would eventually happen, no matter how much she wanted it to be otherwise, a voice in her heart told her that it would be on the opposite side of the battlefield. She gripped the edge of the book roughly, squeezing the paper and leather binding together. Could she really do that? Catherine had tried to be calm about it in the presence of others, but the thought made her feel sick on the inside, sick and mortally ill. Could she point a gun at his chest and fire?

"I didn't know," She whispered hoarsely to herself, closing her eyes to the lengthening afternoon, "I didn't know what was going on. I was so worried about Kaitlyn that I barely saw what was happening to you, now I'm scared… I'm scared for both of you." Slowly raising a hand, she gently pulled off her red headband holding streams of light brown hair back, constricting the fabric with knotted-up tension. She felt like crying again, but bottled up the emotion, knowing that it would be a pointless gesture. "Don't you all go away and leave me, if you do, I'll never forgive you. But Clive," Her voice was barely above a whisper, "I will keep my promise, Honey. I promise I will keep the others safe, even from you."

Catherine opened the small notebook she had brought along with all the other stuff stowed away in the medicine bag, a little leather book that was more than twenty years old. This aging tome was the trigger that had helped to start this chain of events, leading her to this place, an unfamiliar colony far away from her homeland. This was the book that Ravendor had written in all those years ago, a group diary that had the words 'Black Shuck' printed across the front. Catherine hadn't seen or heard those words in years, it was unsettling. Randomly, she flipped to a page, surprised to see her own handwriting written neatly within each of the lined pieces of paper. It was dated nearly twenty years ago, seeming an entire lifetime away. Unable to resist, she read through the short paragraph, fraught with spelling mistakes.

__

They're arguing again. They're **always** arguing, all the time, over the stupidest things. I swear, they don't even mean it, I just think that they like to hear the sound of their own voices. One of them starts screaming, and then the other one starts up as well, then they start throwing punches, and the children start crying… Gods, it's annoying. And then, less than five minutes later, they've made up and are all buddy-buddy again, albeit a little bit bruised. Clive really needs to control his temper, and Ravendor should really set a better example for all the little ones, am I the only one noticing this? I'll make a mental note to let Kaitlyn sort this out. She's the only one who seems to be able to control those two, it's crazy. I need to figure out how she does it.

The woman smiled wistfully. "I remember that." She said to herself, picturing the situation with perfect clarity. Those two had always argued, but it had only been in good fun, she never knew anybody as close as Clive and Ravendor had been, for things to turn out this way in the present, it was beyond sad. A good friendship was supposed to last forever, she had believed for so long that nothing could be stronger. Sighing, she flipped to a different page, recognizing Clive's thin spidery handwriting without hesitation. This also seemed to be old, but not quite as old as the first passage. Her wistful smile slowly vanished as she absorbed the contents of the second note, remembering the descriptions with a bitter sting. Along with the fond memories, painful mental remembrances were also woven into words, words that were Clive's own.

__

I hate it when it rains. I hate spring, it's always rainy, always colorful and cheery, and the roof is full of big gaping holes. Water leaks in and I put down a whole lot of pots and containers, but they just fill up and I can't empty them quickly enough. It would be better if I could use my right arm, I wanna know when I can take the bandage off, it's very itchy and I hate that as well. The kids keep poking it and asking to see all the blood and pus, so I tell them to shut up and leave me alone. Catherine tried her best to take the bullet out, and I guess I should be grateful for that, but it still really, **really** hurts. Is a bullet wound supposed to kill this badly? I think it's infected.

And, well, this is the hard part. I don't really want to put it down in writing, mostly because I have to use my left hand and this writing looks like shit, but I need to write this, it's so I don't forget in the future. Something tells me I'm gonna need to remember this someday.

He still hasn't come back yet. I waited and waited until I was so pissed off I wanted to scream, but it doesn't look like he'll be coming back. No, that's wrong, I still have his ARM, he'll be coming back for that soon enough… and then I'll probably… Actually, I don't know what I'll do. I'll probably cry. Yeah, that's it, I did it before and I'll do it again. I hate being weak.

I asked an older kid what 'suicide' meant. I was so surprised, I didn't think anybody would ever wanna kill themselves, **him** least of all. I know it hurt a lot of us, and it hurt him the most, but nothing like this. It's not supposed to happen. I won't let him do it, never again. Ravendor's my brother, if he wants to kill himself, then fine, but he'll have to shoot me again, first.

From her memory, Clive must've only been thirteen when he wrote that, just entering his angsty years. But he had just cause to be so despondent, they had all been sad during that time, when _she_ had died. Everybody Catherine knew had lost many tears over that incident, but Clive and Ravendor, they had suffered the worst of all. Death killed, but not just the fated individual, the reaper's scythe cut through every single loved one all at the same time. And their decay would always be much slower. Catherine carefully closed the book, her hands falling to her sides. Now she felt even more depressed.

__

"…Clive and Ravendor were very close, almost like blood brothers, they virtually grew up together. However, about seventeen years ago, there was a series of rather severe incidents and their friendship suffered dramatically. It was a death, a very painful death."

A newly-born tear ran down her cheek, immediately brushed away. Things weren't supposed to be that way, not for a family of small children. Catherine had been alright, she still had her kind and loving father, but everybody else, the Little Twister orphans, Clive and Ravendor, they had nothing. _How in the world,_ she thought while shaking her head, _Did they manage to live through that?_

Her hands were shivering so much that a yellowed piece of paper being used for a bookmark slid out between the pages and fluttered to lie between the short-clipped blades of grass, resting at Catherine's feet. She stared at it dumbly, something in the back of her mind making her reach down almost automatically and pick up the parchment, freeing it from the creased way it was folded. Her fingers froze suddenly as she recognized one word printed neatly on the covering fold in Clive's usually messy handwriting, written in red ink. The word simply said; 'Sin.'

"I do not remember this," She muttered, "He must have never shown me this…" Hesitantly, she unfolded the paper, text similar to Kaitlyn's kidnapping message meeting her eyes, if not a little bit jittery and rushed. It looked like the person who had written the letter was very impatient, of just plain scared. Somehow, Catherine knew that a lot of emotion had gone into the making of this message, it seemed to radiate a strange exhaustion that must have been an extension of the author. Words had an eerie power like that, sometimes. No, this wasn't Clive's handwriting, her heart fell to her feet, a dismal coldness clawing it's way into Catherine's chest. The words were Ravendor's.

__

In my heart I see a cup. It is like one of those clear crystal wine glasses, with a bright light shining upon it as if it lay within a darkened room. I think that cup is like my soul, no, It **is** my soul. Every moment of my life, liquid is always dripping into it, precious things, thoughts, memories, people, it falls like drops of water into that glass, and when I look over the rim to the liquid swirling around in it, I see…

I see the things that really make life **matter**, like my existence **means** something. Every time Catherine smiles at me, or whenever Clive complains about his study and asks me for help, they are all individual drops that make up precisely who I am. The cup has been full for a very long time, I admit that I never regretted once the decision to move to my new home, I love it even more so knowing that my old home no longer endures a place in my heart. It is forgotten. In truth, I owe my very existence to the ones who work and live around me, and the environments and situations that I still deem to be a wonderful gift. That is who I am, that is all I wish to be. Isn't that… isn't that what everybody really wants?

Here it was that several splotches of ink were dedicated to an entire empty line, as if the tip of a quill had rested for ages on the paper, the author unable to find any proper words to write. Catherine squinted at the letter, a little along the blank line, some words were scribbled out with a dark ink, yet looking very closely she could barely make out the words; "_I wish that I…" _But they were not used.

__

But lately, I…I feel like something deep inside me is cracking, I can hear the sound of broken glass, tinkling on a non-existent floor. I can feel a leak, and those thoughts and memories I love are slowly dripping away. My cup has a crack in it, and I can sense the loss that is robbing me of my happiness, I know what it is that causes it, and I know…that you probably do too. It is bleeding from my body, I know that I am being drained…it leaks… and then I am…empty.

I am sorry, Catherine. I have tried my best to hide it, but I am not as strong as you are. Clive, I made a promise and I have broken it, you must take care of yourself now. And the others…just tell them I am sorry.

I am too empty to continue…the only thing left I can do is…destroy the chalice that is too broken to be of use. **I** am no longer of any use, I couldn't stop it, the sin is mine.

Goodbye. 

_**-- Ravendor Begucci**_

The paper was so old that when she tore it in half, it made barely any noise, but released an old musty smell into the air. Shredding it into a thousand separate pieces with a deadly calm, Catherine's steel grey eyes were neutral as the pieces were carried into the air by a wayward breeze, like aged confetti. The book she kept, for they still contained fond memories, but all her power was spent on wishing desperately that Clive and Kaitlyn were alright, the past was the past, nothing could change it. It was the present that she cared about. "I think I see… why you are still hurting…" Catherine said to an unknown source, "How long can a wound be torn and left open? I thought all of us bore a scar…" The gentle winds blew at her back, forcing her freed hair to spill forwards and follow the air, she absently held the strands back, the slight movement of her arm showing the very tip of a scar running down to the elbow, her own chock. 

While her own scars were hidden, another bore them without the support she received from her husband and child, her family. Another one was all alone, taking the burden all by himself, slowly… dying…

Empty.

xxx

Gallows's eyes watered as the pictorial hieroglyphs printed neatly on the ancient parchments seemed to dance around mischievously whenever he tried to focus on them. He pressed his fingers onto the edge of the page in an attempt to stop the unwanted motion, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He hated this, studying was hard, and so damn _boring_. He had found a pile of historical documents that dated back to Guardian's knows when in the back of Baskar Colony's storeroom, splitting them in half and handing a portion to Shane, the two brothers had spread papers everywhere on the floor and meticulously looked over each one.

The older brother pinched his cheek softly in order to keep himself awake, hardly finding the notes on bulk maize transportation of three hundred years ago very interesting. Looking over to Shane, the youth's eyes flicked across the parchment at a phenomenal speed, taking in all the information possible. Gallows smiled slightly, that was another reason why Shane would make a great priest someday, he could take boredom like no-one else. "Hey Shane," Gallows said after a moment, "D'ya really think there anything worthwhile in these notes, really? All these things are talkin' about is, well… history and stuff."

Shane's gaze flicked up to meet Gallows's for about half a second before going back to what he was looking at. Shane smiled. "There is value in everything, big brother." He replied, "The one problem is to discover exactly where that value lies." His finger traced over a few hieroglyphs and the pillar took out a clean sheet of paper and a pencil, copying down the material.

Getting up from his cross-legged position on the floor, careful not to disturb some of the pots on the shelves, Gallows's leaned over his little brother, finding himself curious over something. "What'cha got?" He asked, hoping that at least _some_ success had been reached.

"Nothing ground-breaking," The boy answered, lying stretched-out on the ground so he could see the papers better. His plait slipped off his back and fell to the floor, going unnoticed. "Just some slight information about the _lycanthrope_ here that might be a little useful. Apparently," He held up the paper so Gallows could see, "A lycan has two weak spots, one you can use to cause temporary paralysis, and the other is the _only_ spot where a bullet wound can kill it."

"Gimme that." Said Gallows, pulling the yellowing parchment gently out of Shane's grasp. He scanned the text, reading something about a list of mythical creature weaknesses. So, Shane got all the useful stuff while he was left with agricultural reports. Gallows chuckled, it figured. Yes, here were the two weaknesses mentioned, written by the shaky hand of a probably aged chronicler. Gallows read it out loud. "The two weaknesses of the beast, _lycanthrope_ are…" He dictated, trying to imitate the old voice and weird accent he believed the chronicler to have borne, "The area in which the infection hath set in, a befoulment caused by the she-wolf of the full moon. Purification by silver cancels the decay and frees the soul."

"Yes," Agreed Shane softly, "But it is a freedom which leads into death." He brushed away some of the papers that he had already read, creating an empty space in the center of the room. He put his own note down in the middle, underlining the copied words. This was information that needed to be known, but one that they wished not to use.

"The second one," Gallows continued, cutting out his old man impression, "Is a technique used to offer a moment of vulnerability over the lycan, in order to quell it's ferocious wrath. A deadening of the nerves can be created by applying pressure onto the creature's tail, according to Baskar pressure point principles." He scratched his frizzy hair, looking down at Shane's expectant face. "That seems kinda strange. I caught a cat one, and pulled it's tail…" Gallows made a weird expression, "But the darn thing went postal on me, it took three weeks for the scratches to go away."

"How could I forget that?" Mused Shane, "I was there, I saw it all happen." He went over what he had written again, a nostalgic smile on his face. "Even if it does say things like that, I don't recommend we follow their example. Grabbing a _lycanthrope_ is dangerous enough, but if it-"

"_He._" Gallows corrected.

Shane nodded, "I'm sorry, _he_. If he bites you, then the infection will spread and we do not need an epidemic on our hands. Especially seeing we do not have any knowledge of a cure yet. At least, apart from the silver bullets." There was more silence, pregnant with expectancy and tinged with the slight rustling of paper every so often. Gallows looked like he was suffering a slow and painful death by the way he was drooping onto the parchment-covered floor. Shane breathed softly, but everything was so quiet that even the gentle intake of air was audible.

Reaching around behind him, Gallows procured a bottle of Baskarian liquor he had brought with him to help his 'study' along, pulling off the cork with his teeth and taking a quick swig of the drink. It was clear liquid and had a sharp taste, with the gentle flavoring of blackcurrants to add to the mix. Thinking about it proudly, Gallows had fermented and mixed this brew all by himself, he was good at stuff like that. 

His eyes shifted to the paper briefly, he thumbed through some of the underlying notes, the thoughts in the back of his head collaborating with each other and holding meetings to decide the name for the new drink he had created, something new and cool. "Arnica?" He asked himself softly, no, that sounded too bizarre for his liking. A few moments passed and Gallows looked through some more stuff, in reality just re-reading the documents he had already gone over. "Aconite?" The Baskar guessed, rubbing his chin. No, too flashy. For the third time, he read the notes again, seeing the words but not registering them in any useful way. "Mandrake?" He hummed, tapping the ground with his fingers. Absolutely not, it sounded like some kind of herb-

"Big brother, what on earth are you talking about?" Shane asked, one eyebrow raised. It seemed that the older priest had slipped away into the chaos that was his mind once more. Well, it was Shane's duty to set that right again.

"Um… I don't know." Gallows sweatdropped, pushing his bottle of unnamed liquor forward. "I was thinking up a name for this, and those words just popped into my hea-" The Baskar's eyebrows knitted together, the man slowly going silent. Finally, he looked down at the paper and _comprehended_ the written words just as he took another swig of his drink, having the funniest reaction possible. Gallows's choked and was unable to swallow the liquid, so the alcohol found a new path and gushed straight out of his nose, and yet Gallows was too shocked to even notice this.

Shane looked worried. "Are you alright?"

Gallows's jumped up to attention, almost hitting his head on a shelf as he did so. He snatched up the small pile of papers he had thumbed through and clutched them like they were worth a million gella, striking a victory pose. "I got it! I got it! Yeah! Where's Granny? Let's go see Granny!" His drink toppled over and spilled all over the floor, Shane thoughtfully gathered up all the remaining documents so they couldn't get wet. Unable to wait any longer, Gallows turned sharply and dashed for the exit, and the younger brother predicted a thumping noise that he heard soon after, not needing his dream sight to know what would happen.

Rolling his eyes, Shane sighed. "You have to open the door before you can go through it, big brother."

"Oh yeah! Heheh…" The door was opened and Gallows lumbered through, his little brother following close behind with a stack of aged documents in both arms. Amused, all Shane did was shake his head and smile, muttering something barely legible under his breath.

"…And so here I see the truth. One of us is adopted, I just know it…"


	35. Black Feather, Illness, And The Arrival ...

(A/N: Thanks to Skylark for helping me name Dario's family. You're a big help! )

The sun was slowly setting, a semi-circular disc dropping over the distant horizon, the area where the land and sky met just a mass of colorless heat waves. On the very highest point of the quarry, shaped like some kind of termite mound, Ravendor Begucci watched the sun set with an expectant silence, like something very important was about to occur, though he had no present knowledge of exactly what it was. He smiled, glad that night would soon fall. He liked the night, it was… comforting.

If he had his own way with things, he would travel by night and rest during the day, because darkness always made things cooler and he abhorred the constant heat waves sweeping Filgaia, it seemed like they were there just to annoy him. But the wind kept blowing, and the evening breeze was nice and cool, like a small reward for a hard days work. As high up as he was, Ravendor could clearly see the camp from afar, deciding that it was about time for him to rejoin the others.

Upon his descent into the outskirts of the quarry, the physical strain of his entire day's activities suddenly caught up with him and Ravendor started to cough, his foot slipping on a rock and forcing him to his knees, holding his throat and choking. Breaking out in a cold sweat, he anticipated what came next and clutched at his throat even tighter as a sharp stabbing pain flew down his back, like somebody invisible had just thrown molten lava all over him, bloodstream feeling like it was set on fire. His hands grasped a rock and he pressed down on that, waiting not so patiently for the pain to go away and trying to make his coughing subside. "N-No… Not yet… Not anymore…" He breathed, sweat beading on his face and feeling the long and severe ache subside with the gradual passage of time. Speaking so softly that he could barely hear himself, he added; "… Curse you, Malik…"

Fumbling in his jacket pocket, Ravendor shakily removed his packet of cigarettes and drew one out, taking out his lighter in the meantime. The end was lit and he inhaled deeply, feeling returning to all of his limbs and the pain going away. Whenever he had one of his 'dizzy spells', It felt as if his entire body was going to crumble away. That was his problem, and one of his many curses, a body blighted with an unnatural blood disease that caused him to be sick whenever he pushed himself too hard. 'Blood disease' was not the correct word for his infliction, but uttering the _real_ name for his problem just made Ravendor's stomach turn. Breathing in heavily from his cigarette, the special blend of medicinal herbs and chemicals mixed in with the tobacco suppressed and shortened the length of his dizzy spells, although it could not silence them completely. He hid the fact whenever possible, but he was not, and never would be, a very healthy man. Outwardly, he looked fine, but on the inside…

Antonio stooped and laid a gloved hand on Ravendor's shoulder, not expecting the man to stiffen with pain as the contact was felt. "You okay, Boss? I see you fall, and I come to help, Si?" His hand was shrugged off and the bandit leader got up by himself, leaning over slightly like he had been kicked in the stomach. The medicine worked almost instantly, and he felt a little embarrassed for collapsing in such a way, especially when he was supposed to maintain his role as leader around here.

"Thank you for the concern, Antonio." Said Ravendor graciously, wiping the sweat off his face with the back of a hand, "But I will be fine now. It was only a passing detriment, I assure you nothing is wrong." From this, he lied wantonly, still feeling like somebody had thrust a red-hot poker into his back. Stuffing his packet of cigarettes back into his pocket, he regarded his foreign minion with a small smile on his face.

Forgetting his manners, Antonio absently switched back to his mother tongue and addressed his boss with a question, a little irritated by the strange cloud of sweet-smelling smoke Ravendor's cigarettes were making. It didn't smell like tobacco at all. "¿Fumas mucho?" He wondered out loud, looking up at the overcast sky. He went red after a second, realizing that Ravendor could not answer him.

But oddly enough, he did. "Si. ¿Quiere usted un cigarrillo?" Ravendor replied, reaching back into his pocket and extending the packet to the lesser bandit, smirking almost smugly. "I gather by your expression that you did not expect me to understand you, correct? Well, I can, to a certain degree." Antonio opened and closed his mouth a couple of times dumbly, then finally stopped and laughed, shaking his head.

"I beaten! Gracias Señor, but no thank you. I no smoke." He looked back down at the campsite, the area only a short walk away. "Night come. We go back to camp, yes?" Looking into Ravendor's green eyes, Antonio could see that the man was still a little bit disoriented, but he nodded anyway, pocketing his cigarettes and lighter, holding one arm out as a signal for Antonio to go on ahead. With the agility of some kind of small monkey, the ninja bandit scrambled down the rocks with an uncanny dexterity, his small size and wiry stature making him an excellent rock climber.

Ravendor took his own path down the quarry-side, one that a man with an _average_ nimbleness could cross. He moved with a careful deliberation, knowing that the slightest increase in his energy could trigger another and probably even more severe dizzy spell. It only ever happened every week or so, but when it did, it made him feel like he had just been trampled by something incredibly heavy.

Or squashed by a huge rock.

He shuddered, trying to divert his thought patterns to something a little more pleasant. As he moved away, a weak wind blew his white jacket back, allowing something tiny and soft to fall out from between it's recesses, completely unnoticed by the world, or it's inhabitants.

The single black feather was immediately caught upon the evening breeze, disappearing within moments.

xxx

The sky grew dark and became awash with thickening clouds, a deep and dreary grey, the color of filthy wool. Sluggishly, they floated away south to the green fields of Southfarm, but their journey forced them across the windswept canyon first, blocking out the usually brilliant night sky. This saddened Kaitlyn, for she really had looked forward to seeing the wasteland sky in all it's glory, away from the lights and obstructions that were present in town. In any case, she still looked up at the sky, likening it's motion to a great big pot of porridge being stirred. It was getting rather cold, so she slid closer to the campfire, warming her hands on the nearby flames

Everybody was ringed around the campfire, sitting in the order of Ravendor first, then Kaitlyn and Dario, followed by Romero and Antonio. Kaitlyn felt a little safer being between nice Mister Dario and her Uncle Ravendor, something deep inside her made the child distrust the blonde and foreign bandit, she just didn't like the way they seemed to look at her. Ravendor was stirring something he was cooking in a pot, a kind of reddish concoction that smelt of meat and vegetables. His mind looked rather occupied as he did so, like he was trying to figure out an equation without first knowing the logistics of the problem. Kaitlyn decided to leave him be.

Antonio coughed. "Perdón, my friends. I have question for brothers." He looked sideways at Romero who seemed to be inside some magical world in his own head. Tapping the bandit a few times, Antonio finally got his attention. Dario was already listening, glancing up from his more than half shredded world map. "I see brother Dario and brother Romero, but where be brother Lucio?" He scratched his head, confused at the look Dario and Romero shot each other at the same time.

"Lucio… He's dead." Dario replied bluntly, folding up his map. "It's been nearly a year now since he was gunned down. 'Thought you knew already." Antonio's face fell, absently cracking his knuckles hidden underneath his thick battle gloves. Across from the fire, Dario shrugged. "Sorry. It were an act of negligence on our parts. We weren't watching his back when we were supposed to."

Antonio nodded half-heartedly. "No, S'okay. We all be shot someday, it bandit way of life." From his belt, he removed a canteen full of whiskey and took a swig, a small trickle of the liquor running down his chin. He wiped it away and had a flash of revelation. "Oh yeah! Dario, how be Maria and Carolyn? I no see them before, only in letter you sent me." His small frown became a smile, thinking back to the one day years ago when he actually got a letter from Dario, even though the bearded bandit couldn't write back then, he had paid a literate man to compose it for him. He still had the letter, somewhere.

Dario had been cleaning his weapon when the two names were mentioned. At the casual use of those words, his hands froze up and the gun slipped out of them, landing between his filthy boots. The pistol was loaded and it went off, thankfully missing everybody in the campsite but making a loud cracking noise in the air. After that, Gillius TH12/23 was silent, and so was he. Meekly, Antonio shied away from the scrape where the bullet had ricocheted off the rock he was sitting on. "¿Que le duele? I say something wrong?" The foreign bandit asked.

"…Nah." He said after a good few seconds, scratching his beard. "You just shocked me, that's all. I nearly forgot about that, been thinkin' about other things lately." Ravendor finally diverted his attention from whatever he was cooking to the conversation of the bandits, listening in but remaining quiet. Dario rifled through his pockets and removed his shamefully empty wallet, nearly expecting moths to fly out of it as the money clip was opened. Instead of gella, Dario removed a black and white photo instead and passed it to Romero, who then passed it to Antonio. "There they are, see?"

It was a picture of two people standing outside a house, the first one a woman of vivacious yet subtle beauty and a little dark-haired girl who looked to be no more than four or five years old. They were waving to the person who was taking the photograph and smiling like all was right in the world. Leaning over to the right so he could also take a look, Ravendor could easily tell that this photo was of Dario's family. However, the picture was old, it looked like it had been resting inside the recesses of Dario's wallet for quite some time. "¡Que preciosas! Ah, la chica, she is so pretty…" Exclaimed Antonio, yet finding himself staring at the woman in the photo with unblinking eyes.

Dario made a non-committal grunt and Romero laid back to look at the sky, resting his hands behind his head. Ravendor went back to stirring their dinner, a little surprised to find that Kaitlyn was leaning up against him, asleep. The toll of a long hiking trip had finally caught her and she could no longer stay awake. Ravendor put an arm around her so she would not fall over and just ignored the girl. Antonio grinned devilishly. "So, why you no be with them?" He fanned away the smoke from Ravendor's cigarette that had decided to come and pay him a visit, "If I had family like that, I be with them all the time."

The eldest bandit's voice was not as rough or as churlish as it usually was, Dario's voice was low and very quiet, like he didn't even want to hear himself speak. "'Cause they're dead, alright? Both of them, Maria and Carolyn, they're dead." There was silence, and Antonio finally shut up.

But not for very long. "I… sorry. I not know. Sorry." Kestorael returned from his scouting mission, alighting himself on Ravendor's shoulder, the bandit leader barely noticing the new arrival, too interesting in what was going to transpire between his minions. Antonio continued to force the conversation along. "What happen? How they die? Is better to talk about things, so no more be sad."

"I ain't sad," Came the reply, "Fine. I'll tell you'se, 'make a good campfire tale, I bet it will." Dario looked into the fire, wondering where to start. He wasn't a very good storyteller, and hated to speak when everybody was looking at him. Well, almost everybody, Kaitlyn was sleeping and Romero had heard this tale before, but still Antonio and Ravendor were interested in what he had to say. Kestorael cawed and settled down, resting and keeping half an ear trained on the sound of Dario's voice.

He started. "Well, err, I only been a bandit for about six years now. After we split up in Little Twister, I moved on over to Little Rock during the gold rush to make my fortune. Things were good for a while, being a miner was fun and rewarding, I got some exercise and money all at the same time, and I actually did well at it. Then I met Maria, a really, _really_ beautiful lady with great big-"

Ravendor cleared his throat. "There is a child in the vicinity." He reminded them, even though Kaitlyn was sound asleep. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke away from her, still glad that his transient feeling of illness had passed. The last thing that was needed right now was for him to fall sick again. The smoke had a strange blue coloring to it, and smelt kind of sweet. All of the bandits were too busy listening to Dario's story to notice this.

"Right." Dario made a motion with his hands around his chest to convey what he meant instead, grinning. Romero started to snigger. "Anyway, one thing led to another and before I knew it, I was married to her and living out a pretty nice life on the outskirts of the town. Then," Dario added, "We ended up havin' a kid, so I called her Carolyn, because I always liked that name. I think I was happy, yeah, I don't think I'd ever been happier." The bandit rubbed the back of his neck, moving up to the sad part that he hated. "Then we had a drought, it was really awful, water started disappearin' all over the place and people began to get sick. I kept on workin' so I could pay for the water, but there just wasn't enough of it to go around."

"I remember drought." Said Antonio, nodding. "It kill lot of sheep and horses in Claiborne. Fields turn brown. No good."

"Yeah." Dario agreed. "And the water we _did_ find wasn't good for drinking, but we drunk it anyway. It was really bad, Maria and Carolyn both caught this disease from the water, and it slowly killed them. 'Started with a 'T', I think." He poked the fire with a stick, the burning embers rolling around and settling down, glowing a little bit. He wracked his brain for the name, it was a big word that he had trouble pronouncing, and it could barely be remembered.

"I believe the word you are looking for is the disease tuberculosis, it affects the lungs of a victim and causes the organ to fill with liquid and eventually suffocate the inflicted person to death. Continual use of antibiotics can slow down or even neutralize the illness, but the disease must be caught in it's earlier stage for any hope of survival." Ravendor explained, seeming to know more than enough about the subject. His eyes were distant as if recalling long-forgotten information. "I am guessing that your family did not survive the epidemic." He lowered his voice a degree. "You have my condolences."

Dario removed his hat, slowly turning it around by the rim in his hands. "As if the drought didn't bleed us dry, the doctor bills sure did the job. I went broke and had to find a new way to muster up some money, mining just wasn't workin' anymore. Then," He pointed to Romero who had his eye closed as he laid down on the ground, "This guy pays me a visit while he was on the run from the law. He were makin' more than three times as much as me, so I got in on the action. I been a bandit ever since, even after Maria and Carolyn died. I had nowhere else to go, anyways. And that's my story. Boring, huh?"

Antonio processed the information slowly. "¿Verdad? I sorry. I should no have brought it up." His hazel eyes contained a little jealousy, though. "But you lucky, Dario. I never have chance to have family, even if only for little while. You very lucky." He chuckled softly before taking another swig of his drink, wondering what on Filgaia it would be like to be a father. Being a bandit was very demanding, he never really got the chance to meet any girls. Apart from the occasional prostitute, of course.

"Maybe I was," Agreed Dario, putting his hat back on, "But hell, it's all in the past now, and who gives a damn about that, right?!" He yelled, grinning and pumping a fist into the air. "We live for today, that's what bein' a bandit's all about, right guys?!" Antonio and Romero cheered heartily, and Ravendor just chuckled softly to himself, glad to see that at least _some_ people could be optimistic about their lives. In that way, the leader found himself slightly envying Dario, just a teensy little bit. Kaitlyn shifted in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent under her breath. Ravendor merely ignored this.

"Gentlemen." Ravendor began, removing the can that contained their dinner off the campfire. "It is now time for us to eat, but before that, I shall elaborate on our plans for the next few days or so." He set the can beside the fire, removing from the folds of his coat an intact copy of the world map, looking to be just about brand new. Folding it in such a way so that only Dune Canyon was visible and the rest tucked away, Ravendor laid the map over his lap and traced their days march with a finger, calculating exactly when they would arrive at their destination tomorrow. If they kept at the same speed he had enforced today, they would easily meet his deadline.

Using a lightning-quick speed, Romero snatched the half-full canteen straight out of Antonio's hands, the foreign drifter staring dumbly at his open palm for a second before guessing precisely what had happened. He scowled for a moment and then broke out into a grin, realizing that it was _he_ who had taught Romero ninja skills like that. The blonde bandit gulped down the alcohol greedily, not feeling particularly hungry himself, he could subsist on pure liquor alone for days, if he tried.

Ravendor tapped a part of the map, nodding with resolve. "Here are the co-ordinates for our destination; X: 20473. Y: 8649, and our current co-ordinates are; X: 20079. Y: 9010. We will take a course between these two points as the crow," He stopped and momentarily patted a sleeping Kestorael, "Or raven, flies. If we wake up before the dawn tomorrow and maintain our pace, our job will be over a lot quicker than I would have expected." He scanned the three faces sitting around the fire. "Is this a comfort to you?" Ravendor received some nods as an answer. "Good. Myself, you, and all of us will be much richer before the week is out."

Having the question hovering around the back of his mind, but being reluctant to say it out loud, Dario conquered the feeling and finally spoke. "What if the Maxwell Gang don't turn themselves in? _Then_ what do we do?" The bandit felt a twinge of something unnamable rush across his mind as Ravendor drew his gun, one of the most expensive pieces of machinery Dario had ever seen, and transferred it to his left hand, gently pressing the dark barrel of the weapon under Kaitlyn's chin. She was clutching tightly Ravendor's coat, snuggled deeply into his side. The little girl had absolutely no idea about what was going on around her, she was still smiling contentedly.

"_Then._" Said Ravendor, repeating Dario's words with his voice devoid of all emotion, the three bandits briefly catching a glimpse of something not quite sane hiding beneath his countenance. "I wait until the designated time limit, and _then_," His grip on the Peacemaker's handle increased lightly, trigger finger quivering slightly, "I blow her little brains out. BANG!" He muttered the words under his breath, careful not to wake her up, but pressing the barrel deeper under her jaw. "And that will be that." Ravendor's words were lifeless and neutral, in that lack of emotion, it suggested a kind of emptiness that made the three bandits a little uneasy. By the way Ravendor spoke, he didn't seem entirely human.

Romero asked a question. "I know you said you weren't related to that green-haired guy, but why the hell do you'se two sound the same? It's freaky, man." Dario nodded, wondering the same question himself. Ravendor raised an eyebrow and looked a little confused, like he didn't know what the bandits were talking about. After some moments of thought, the bandit leader was able to answer, smiling a little in embarrassment.

"Oh, I had forgotten. You have met Mr. Winslett before, have you not? Yes, we do sound very much alike, I am sorry if it disturbs you. My apologies." Ravendor politely bowed a little while he was sitting down, slipping his ARM back into it's holster. He made it a prime focus of his to be courteous to everyone, even his own minions. The food he had prepared had finally cooled down somewhat, so he gently shook Kaitlyn awake, careful not to be too rough with her.

"Whu-wha…?" She yawned, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Is it morning already?" She asked, blinking tiredly. A wooden bowl filled with some kind of reddish stuff was placed into her lap and she stared at it, not really registering that it was there. Dario, Romero and Antonio had also dished out their servings, but even the bandits themselves, who ate whatever was given to them, couldn't figure out whatever the hell this stuff was.

"I must insist that you eat something before you go to sleep, Kaitlyn." Ravendor reasoned with her. "It is unhealthy for a little girl to not eat when she is supposed to." Putting out his cigarette so he could eat something himself, Ravendor kindly explained exactly what it was that he had prepared for dinner tonight. "I do hope that you enjoy the chili I have made for you all. It contains an adequate percentage of vegetables and meats which will supplement lost vitamin and protein deposits due to energy expenditure. Also, I have added spices for flavoring. It will give you enough strength to continue our march tomorrow morning."

Proving to the others that he was not as spineless as some people made him out to be, Romero tried his first, digging his wooden spoon into the weird concoction that smelt of Mexican peppers. Throwing away his hesitation, he swallowed some.

A minute later, Dario was snickering into his beard and Antonio was prodding the younger bandit worriedly as he lay face-down on the ground after his frantic attempts to inhale his own water canteen had failed. Romero twitched slightly, breathing through his mouth with his tongue stuck out and panting like some kind of dog. Being nice, the eldest bandit was fanning Romero with his hat, trying to make the heat go away. 

Secretively, Ravendor took out a small glass vial of liquid from one of the many niches in his coat, the fluid inside glowing a vibrant orange. While nobody else was looking at him, he unscrewed the lid and tipped the medicine down his throat, receiving an aftertaste that was worse than a strong shot of tequila. Shooting a glance at Romero, the dark-haired man looked moderately surprised. "Is it too spicy for him?" He asked, his own meal half-eaten without complaint. Romero moaned out a long complaint, lisping a little because his tongue was burned. He squirmed for a bit, then fell silent.

Antonio continued to poke his younger brother, trying to get a reaction from him. "¿Que le te parcen las comidas? Is it good? Nice?" Romero moaned again and tried to curl up into a little ball, hands over his head. The foreign bandit turned to his leader, shrugging. "What you put in food?" He inquired calmly, a little amused at Romero's suffering.

Lightly scratching his chin in thought, Ravendor obligingly read out the list of ingredients in his mind. "Only the usual things. Tomatoes, ground beef, onions, capsicum, jalapeno peppers, chilies, spices and dead peppers." He kept a perfectly straight face while he listed all of these, while Dario and Antonio's faces twisted into sympathetic looks of pain for their wounded comrade. Romero continued to twitch, and Antonio patted him on the back with pity.

Dario immediately realized something. "Hey! Don't give Kaitlyn any of that-"

They all turned to the little girl sitting beside Ravendor and Dario. Grinning cheerfully, her bowl was already empty, scraped clean. "That was yummy!" She exclaimed, "It's just like the stuff that Daddy makes sometimes! Can I have some more?" She turned to the bandit leader and held out her bowl, smiling brightly. Refilling it from the can he had used to cook the stuff in, Ravendor, Dario and Antonio began to laugh, all at the same time. So, a little girl could handle the chili while a fully grown man could not. 

Romero groaned with shame.


	36. Campfire Tales

(A/N: Howdy folks! I just need to say that the poem Ravendor quotes is a famous Australian composition by Edward Harrington, I certainly did not own it or write it. Also, in regards to Antonio's weapon, I suppose you can think of Wolverine from X-men, but with the claws coming out of the gloves instead of the hands directly. Oh yeah, and Happy New Year! ^_^)

"Ghost stories!" Kaitlyn exclaimed loudly after spending a lengthy amount of time gazing into the fire, the conversations of her band of kidnappers flying over her little head. She had thought about the things she had always wanted to do on a camping trip, and the telling of bone-chilling ghost stories was one of them. There was just _something_ about telling spooky stories by the campfire that just enchanted her. "It's a good time for some ghost stories! Uncle Ravendor," She turned to the dark-haired man sitting next to her, "What do you say? Can you tell me a scary bedtime story before I go to sleep, please?"

Ravendor was neatly putting away all the implements he had been using to cook dinner as he was addressed, and briefly paused to acknowledge her plea. Cleaning the wooden spoon off with a rag, slightly stained (And if you looked closely enough, a little charred) with the chilli he had cooked up, he set the tool down and looked to his minions, the three brothers all lying down and staring intently at the overcast sky, as if their collective willpower could somehow force the unwanted clouds to leave. It was almost time for them to sleep, even though it was still rather early. They had a long and tiring day ahead of them tomorrow. "A bedtime story?" He asked, "I know many stories, but I do not think that they would be suitable for you, Kaitlyn."

"Oh, come on!" She huffed, crossing her arms. "I'm not that little, you know. I like scary stories." She had a huge collection of them at home, in fact, only two days ago, during Halloween, she had just re-arranged them into her bookcase, from the most frightening to the least frightening. Did Ravendor think she was a baby, or something? Well, he was wrong. He finished packing away the cooking utensils and regarded Kaitlyn evenly, as if he was trying to determine her exact age. The girl thought it would be best to tell him and end his ignorance. "I'm seven, turning eight next month, okay?"

This surprised Ravendor mildly on the inside, he had made an educated guess that she was about six at the most, but he supposed he should have guessed that Kaitlyn was older, both Clive and Catherine had always looked to be younger than their age when they were little kids. It must have been the passing on of their genes, family resemblance. "The stories I tell are for adults, but I may be able to think up a harmless one, if given the time." He admitted, smiling a little.

Romero had finally begun to recover from his act of unnecessary courage, able to move around and speak again, albeit with a slight lisp on his tongue. He honestly thought that it had been thoroughly burnt, and no matter how much water he drunk, it still would not go away. Rubbing his scarred eye slightly, he thought he could detect a slight thinning of the clouds above his head. That was good, he didn't like the idea of being rained on. Looking _very _carefully, he could just barely see the faint outline of the white full moon through the increasingly translucent clouds. Pulling his bandanna up to cover his burnt mouth, he watched the sky with silence. Dario stepped over him and was organising the blankets into a proper sleeping area, humming something soft to himself in tune to his movements. He nearly bumped into Antonio who had just gotten up and slipped into his training routine, shadow-boxing the air contentedly. Everything felt like some kind of calm before a great storm, but Kaitlyn was, ironically, the only one who noticed this.

Kestorael cawed quietly, more than half asleep on Ravendor's shoulder, and the dark-haired man himself had his eyes closed, like he was trying to recall lost information. Because he was sitting across from the still roaring fire, it made him look very eerie. Kaitlyn turned to watch Antonio for a while, the way the foreign bandit seemed to move about showed a peculiar ambidexterity with both his arms _and _his legs, it must have taken him years to learn how to move like that. Of course, she had no basis for that opinion, but she _had_ read a book about fighting artists before, and Antonio seemed to be one of them. Yes, she thought that true, Antonio was a martial artist.

Kaitlyn had gone into a game of throwing small rocks into the fire when Ravendor spoke at last, looking like he had thought up a suitable story to tell. Motioning for the other bandits to join him around the fire, he smirked evilly, having no problems assuming that guise. "I have thought of something," He said ominously, looking over to his minions, "A tale that may even catch the attention of you three, a predominantly mild ghost story of the phantom bandit team, forever cursed to ride across the land in search of their gold. Are you interested?"

The blonde bandit scoffed gently but was elbowed in the ribs by Dario, shutting the younger man up. Kaitlyn nodded happily, clasping her hands together. Carefully, Ravendor liberated a small stick from the fire, burning at one end, but still intact at the other. A few flames clung to the burning end, like a wand wreathed with sparks. Moving his hand in a slow motion, he drew a circle in the air, fire moving with the stick and momentarily illuminating the shape. "The Kelly Gang are long dead, but that does not stop people like _me_ from telling their tale…" His voice dropped several tones, to a creepy whisper. "Even though they say a storyteller uttering their names are _cursed_ by them, forever and ever." He set the twig back into the fire, adding to the effect of his narration by scanning the camp steadily for intruders, his smile simply disturbing.

"Really?" Kaitlyn asked with wide eyes, already absorbed into his words. "Cursed? Wow…" She trailed off, wanting to hear the story more than ever now. Ravendor certainly had a great talent of mental persuasion, his charisma was almost overwhelming at times. If he were to put his mind to it, he could convince anybody he wanted to believe _anything_ he said, that was his effect on people, and one of the reasons why he was so dangerous. "Go ahead, tell me. I'm listening." She breathed, radiating intrigue. Boldly, she turned to the three bandits, shaking Romero by the shoulder until the blonde ninja grumpily got up, muttering something inappropriate under his breath. Dario and Antonio were already listening.

Antonio made a soft chilling ghost howl, getting into the spirit of things. "Ooooooooooooo! And ghosts be big scary white things, with red glowy eyes and…" He raised both his gloved hands, crossed at the wrists and pulled a hidden mechanism under the leather attached to his thumbs, a spring catch releasing the true power of his favoured weapon. Like a cat showing off it's claws, thin blades of steel popped out of the front of the gloves, extending from each knuckle. The weapon made a slightly metallic noise as it was triggered, causing Kaitlyn to jump in her seat. "Big scary beast claws!"

Dario whapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't overdo it, bro." He warned, the only person in the team who actually had some experience with children before. But Kaitlyn still looked happy, she giggled as Antonio held his clenched fist to Dario's neck, then moved down and poked him lightly in the side with the claws, giving off one quiet 'meow'. Dario rolled his eyes exasperatedly and easily knocked the smaller bandit aside, the little man chuckling cheerfully.

"Ghosts don't look like _that_, stupid." Romero disagreed snidely, folding his arms, "They look like regular people, 'cept they're see-through and are all bloody from their killin'." Antonio showed his difference of opinion by snorting and looking into the fire, liking his own concept much more than his younger brother's. He relaxed his hands and the artificial claws slid back into place, the spring catch resetting itself.

"I would offer my own opinion, but it would not be welcomed, at least not in the midst of a ghost tale, so I shall remain silent." Said Ravendor, ever sceptical of the existence of ghosts. He simply did not believe in them, the idea was just too far-fetched. But, he was willing to suspend disbelief tonight, because he did enjoy frightening people, at least in jest. "Now," He began, brushing away his fringe for a second and changing the sound of his voice to a humming sing-song one, "My tale; _The Bushrangers…_"

_

"Four horsemen rode out from the heart of the range,  
Four horsemen with aspects forbidding and strange.  
They were booted and spurred, they were armed to the teeth,  
And they frowned as they looked on the valley beneath,  
As forward they rode through the rocks and the fern -   
Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne. Ned Kelly drew rein and he shaded his eyes -  
'The town's at our mercy! See yonder it lies!  
To hell with the troopers!' He shook his clenched fist -  
'We will shoot them like dogs if they dare to resist!'  
And all of them nodded, grim-visaged and stern -  
Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne. Through the gullies and creeks they rode silently down;  
They stuck up the station and raided the town;  
They opened the safe and they looted the bank;  
They laughed and were merry, they ate and they drank.  
Then off to the ranges they went with their gold -  
Oh! Never were bandits more reckless and bold. But time brings it's punishment, time travels fast -  
And the outlaws were trapped in Glenrowan at last,  
Where three of them died in the smoke and the flame,  
And Ned Kelly came back - to the last he was game.  
But the Law shot him down (he was fated to hang),  
And that was the end of their bushranging gang. Whatever their faults and whatever their crimes,  
Their deeds lend romance to those faraway times.  
They have gone from the gullies they haunted of old,  
And nobody knows where they buried their gold.  
To the ranges they loved they will never return -  
Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne. But at times when I pass through that sleepy old town,  
Where the far-distant peaks of Strathbogie look down,  
I think of the days when those grim ranges rang,  
To the galloping hooves of the bushranger gang.  
Though the years bring oblivion, time brings a change,  
The ghosts of the Kellys still ride from the range."

_

As an end to his cryptic fable, Ravendor unexpectedly drew his pistol with cheetah-like reflexes and fired one ambient shot into the night sky, holding his arm vertically up and keeping it like that for more time than was necessary, making _everybody_ in the campsite jump instead of just Kaitlyn. Gradually, he lowered his arm and holstered his weapon, the previous motion a tribute to all the bandits who had died by the hand of the law. It was a subtle way for a bandit to pay his respects without seeming too… religious.

"Those poor bastards," Said Dario, shaking his head, "But I guess they got their comeuppance, eh? Oh crap, knock on wood…" Finding no wood around except for the stuff burning in the fire, Dario selected the next best thing and rapped on Romero's head, getting softly decked as a result. Ravendor gently stroked his sleeping familiar and pried the bird off his shoulder with an expert skill, managing to do it without the animal waking up. Holding Kestorael with one arm folded across his stomach, he looked up at the night sky and saw an open patch of cloud, showing several sparkling stars. The sky was finally clearing up.

Kaitlyn was ecstatic. "Wow! I knew you'd tell me a story, Uncle Ravendor, but I didn't think you could rhyme as well! That was great!" She smiled sweetly while nodding, but after a moment she went a little more serious. "But…" She added, slightly confused, "You said that calling their names was a curse, so why did you repeat them over and over again? I don't understand."

__

My word… she is a bright one…Yes, of course, she is Catherine's daughter. Kaitlyn, my reason is a simple one, I have been cursed so many times in my life that a few more will not hurt… no… not at all…Maybe even the pain will be a comfort… to know… that I am still alive…and I do not fool myself into believing otherwise…

He chuckled, ignoring the coldness that clung to his heart. "Did I? Well, that is just how the story goes, the way the travelling bards have recorded it. I have no need to worry, a few ghosts cannot hurt me." He gently placed Kestorael on his own old grey blanket, crumpling up the cloth so it resembled some kind of crude nest. "As for the rhyming, it is something I have always been able to do, so it is really nothing special." He glanced at the other bandits. "Turn in soon. Tomorrow I shall awaken you all before dawn." The bandits yawned and stretched at the same time, lumbering over to their own rudimentary sleeping places and making preparations to go to bed. It was still pretty early, but they were all tired enough not to complain.

Kaitlyn's attention immediately shifted elsewhere. She looked into the bare patch of sky and pointed to the stars, a glistening cluster that was framed by the slowly retreating clouds. It was very pretty, the exposed sky an inky black, dotted with shimmering whites. "What are those stars called? Every one of them seems to have a name, so what's that one called?" Ravendor untied the extremely old black ribbon keeping his hair back and looked up to where the little girl was pointing, a little amused at her tendency to illuminate fundamental information.

"That is the Hiades constellation." He explained while removing his jacket, tossing it to the side of his sleeping area. He wore a dark short-sleeved shirt underneath and languidly breathed in the air, the night wasn't as cold as he had thought it to be. "It is a cluster of stars in a galaxy far away from here. Why do you wish to know?" Those stars also had a long and upsetting history, but it was not something to be thought about right now. The war had been fought and won eons ago, it no longer hand any bearing on the present day.

"I dunno." Kaitlyn confessed with a tiny shrug. "It's just that I've noticed when Daddy looks at the sky, he always looks at those stars, and I was wondering why. Hey…" She slowly drawled, realising something, "Hyades? That's what's written on your arm, isn't it?" The girl said while pointing to Ravendor's left arm, pale in the firelight. She could just barely make out the inked word 'Hyades' amidst the rest of the sentence that was too far in the shadows to be read. In an incredibly rare occasion, Ravendor went a slight red and rubbed the tattoo absently with his other hand, moving over non-threateningly to Kaitlyn's side.  
  
"I can assure you that it means absolutely nothing, Kaitlyn. Nothing at all." He lied self-consciously, "Now, it is time for you to go to sleep. Here," He held up a length of very thin rope, "I am very sorry about this, but I have no choice but to tie you up before I can let you sleep. Please understand that I have no choice in the matter; you are still my hostage. Hold out your arms." He instructed, trying to sound like he did not want to do it, which was certainly true.

"Oh yeah," Said Kaitlyn softly, voice going sad, "I forgot that you were kid-napping me. Okay, I don't mind." She held out her hands obligingly, feeling the relatively slender cord being wound with care around her wrists, much more tenderly than the bandit leader had done before. She felt a little sting where the rope touched her chafed skin, but continued to ignore it bravely, forcing herself to think about something else. "Uncle Ravendor?" She asked, lowering her hands after the deed was done.

"Yes?" He answered.

The girl blushed. "I-um… Have trouble getting to sleep at night without having a stuffed toy or something," She disclosed to him privately, "You don't happen to have a- No, no, of course not." She laughed without mirth, awkward. Kaitlyn always tried to act like a grown-up, and confessing to an experienced drifter about such a babyish thing was beyond embarrassing.

But Ravendor merely smiled. Taking the girl carefully by the shoulder and leading her to a blanketed spot near Dario and the fire, he set her down and disappeared over to his spot for a second, returning with something black and warm in his arms. "This is hardly a stuffed animal," He replied, "But I am sure that neither you, nor he shall mind. Be careful not to wake him up, although he is quite a heavy sleeper." Kaitlyn laid down and rolled over to one side, keeping her bound arms near her face. The bandit leader placed Kestorael close to her side before covering her over with a blanket, glad that most of the events during the day had gone smoothly enough. "Good night, Kaitlyn." He said, looking slightly to one side.

"Good night, Uncle Ravendor." She replied from under the blanket, feeling the slight bulk of the sleeping bird pressing against her side. Exhaling softly, the girl closed her eyes, trying to go to sleep. Kestorael cheeped once, then was silent for the rest of the night.

Making no noise at all, Ravendor moved back to his own spot at the campsite and sat down heavily, scanning the area to see if all the bandits had clocked in. Everything was quiet, deathly quiet, except for the chirping of crickets and the crackling flames. Yawning, Ravendor rubbed his sore shoulder, the muscles slightly hurt from his spasm at the quarry, his hand going over the many scars he could feel through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hated those scars. Lying down himself and setting his hands behind his head, Ravendor waited patiently for sleep to claim him.

Unbeknownst to all of them, Romero was still sitting up, his one remaining eye focussed on their defenceless hostage. He grinned, and that was grin was lecherously corrupt. "Me parce muy bonito…" He whispered, rubbing his chin underneath the green bandana, "Such a pretty little blonde… and she's all tied up too… Heh, how interesting, _very_ interesting…" He sniggered to himself for a few personal seconds, taking note of the facts he had learnt tonight. His team still had two more nights of taking care of the brat, and his boredom and perversions were giving him the dregs of an incredibly wicked idea.

But for now, Romero went to sleep. 


	37. Hope

(A/N: Lust Jaw now has it's own guest fanart section! Check it out on my website, under the WA fanfiction area. Submissions are always welcome! )

Virginia did not posses the calm needed to fall asleep, though she wanted to dearly. She lay down limply on the bed, pillow squeezed firmly between her arms, like how one would hug a favored stuffed toy or another sleeping person. Her mind wandered freely to places she could not remember, a strange conscious blankness enveloping her where time seemed not to exist. This was the pit of grievous depression. Her face was pressed against the soft pillow, one hand dangled off the edge of the bed, slack and disregarded. Virginia just didn't care.

She had heard many different voices in the room, familiar, yet she didn't bother to try and recognize the differentiating pitches and tones, it was all just a kind of background noise that made no imprint on her at all. There was talking, fragments of speech, questions and a short but heated argument, accompanied by the sound of somebody being beaten mildly by a stick. Virginia blinked, coming out of a reverie she hadn't realized she had undertaken. Her right pistol holster pressed into her side as she lay down, suddenly reminding her of the task at hand. That was right, they were going to kill Clive. Understanding this, her eyes began to water again, hands curling slightly into the mattress of the bed and off the side.

As she did this, her hand made contact with another's, and she hesitated, disconcerted. Somebody was holding her hand. They were wearing gloves, a soft and thin variety of leather with the tips of the fingers cut off, the skin underneath slightly colder than an average person, but not by too much. Virginia felt a small squeeze, and the other hand holding hers tightened their grip. She understood. "Jet?"

"Hn."

"What's going on?" Her voice was roughened a little by a long period of total silence, like someone just waking up from a long slumber. Brushing her face up against the pillow rubbed away the tears just bordering on her eyes, comforted by the android's soft yet callous voice. It seemed like some time had passed, the air was cooler and the room darker, haunted by the shadows of night-time. It was night, filled with darkness.

Jet was sitting on the empty space of the bed that did not have Virginia on it, the boy sitting upright with his head bowed and his hand holding Virginia's, listening in on the conversations downstairs. It had been running for a long time. Gallows had burst into the room a while ago waving a piece of paper wildly and ranting something too rushed to be understood, followed by the meeker brother who tried to calm Gallows down and decipher his words. Halle quickly shut him up, insulted him a couple of times and managed to rationalise exactly what he said. Catherine came soon after, a small book under her arm, and joined in the discussion. From then on, tension rose and Jet sensed a bizarre wonder mixed with fierce hope. It sounded like the Baskar brothers had discovered something.

But Jet didn't want to interfere. He didn't understand what was going on very well, and decided that the best way for him to help things was to stay clear out of the way. He polished his ARM again, reloaded the weapon with silver ammunition, and sat down beside Virginia until she would notice him, truth be told, he was a little worried about her. Which was strange, because he had never worried about her before. "Not much. I think they think they might've found out some stuff." Hesitating for a moment, Jet let go of her hand and lightly touched the back of her head, her hair was incredibly soft and smooth, a pretty dark brown. Jet expected some kind of negative reaction for doing this, but all Virginia did was close her eyes and sigh.

"I don't know what to do… I can't… I don't wanna fight him. What are we going to do, Jet?" She went quiet afterwards, as if expecting Jet to give her an answer that'll make it all better. Creating a sigh for himself, the silver-haired boy stared at the ceiling dully, his focus directed inwards. He didn't like to think about things too much, because thought inhibited action, and action was crucial for a drifter to secure his income and his life. Jet was a doer, not a thinker. But, there comes a time when the most impulsive man has to stop and think, and for Jet, he had finally reached that time, because he himself had no concrete idea on what action he was going to take.

"Dunno." He said simply, shrugging his shoulders slightly and finding himself lightly stroking Virginia's hair, biting his lip as he did so. "I guess we'll do what we have to do, it's as simple as that." At his words, Virginia began to sob quietly, and the sound was abhorrent to Jet's ears. "No, look, don't cry. Drifter's aren't supposed to cry." He berated her gently, uncomfortable with his current situation. True, Virginia was a girl, and girl's cried a lot, but she was also his loudmouth leader, and he had to make sure she kept her composure. Jet had to put faith and hope in his leader.

The boy had a flash divine inspiration. That was it. Hope. The thought entering his mind, Jet's Hope Shard glowed lightly in his inventory, the boy pulling out the golden slab and placing it on the bed, in front of Virginia's face. Taking her hand once more, he set it upon the medium and lightly pressed down with his own, making Virginia feel the warm carved insignia on the plate. Almost immediately, her tears stopped, banished by the holy light of the dragon Guardian. She looked at the slab with a mixture of wonderment and calm, hearing Jet speak above her with words she had never expected the silver-haired boy to say.

His violet eyes were distant and unusually filled with emotion, his sense of self absorbed into the words he was relaying, the only physical contact to Filgaia made by the touch of Virginia's hand over his. It was almost as if Jet had gone to another place for advice. "I've changed a lot in the past year," He said slowly, "Not by much, I guess, but enough to make everything seem a little… different. I only saw what I needed to see before I met all of you, and I just skipped everything else, like the world only had one dimension, and that was to secure my income. You listenin'?"

Virginia nodded, distantly hearing another argument start up behind her, but the words were lost in the sea of influence Hope Shard was giving her, overpowering the sadness. And Jet, Jet was it's conduit. He spoke again. "Then, when I got used to travellin' with all of you'se, and was involved with the planet's future, I didn't really give a damn about it, at first. But, gradually, that changed. I finally saw how the grass was dyin' and the trees were gone, somehow I remembered them being there in the first place, so it was a shock to notice that they were all gone. As Adam Kadmon, the healed Filgaia was my first memory, and I had only just remembered it."

Adam Kadmon. Virginia would never had expected Jet to call himself by his real name. It was an artificial word, like a label or barcode for a scientific experiment. And the sad thing was, it was Jet's total and absolute truth. But he had already accepted it, and it bothered him no longer. This was one of the many things that made Jet exactly who he was. Not human, perhaps, but a damn decent individual that Virginia took pride in calling her friend. Yes, one of her closest friends.

"My point is," He continued, "I was lookin' at the world from just my own point of view, I saw only what I wanted to see. Findin' out who I was made me see the world from _Filgaia's_ point of view, everything as a whole, and it…" He went quiet, inwardly deciding whether or not he should be telling Virginia this, "It scared the shit outta me. It was like," He searched for a good describing situation, "Like I had a huge chest of gella, and every day I took a coin out and spent it on stuff. By the end, when I opened the box, nothing was there, and I wondered where the hell all my money went. Does that make sense?" He scratched his mop of silvery hair, abashed.

"Actually, it does." Virginia answered quietly, Jet's words making her feel a little better, although they seemed to have no bearing on her immediate problems to date. In truth, she never would have expected the android to have such a mature approach to life. She belittled him sometimes because he looked so young, but his soul was really as aged as her own, perhaps even more so. Hope Shard's warmth spread up her arm, rushing into her chest and making her feel contented inside. She was calm.

"I saw it that way," Jet nearly whispered, deepening his digression, "And only a little while ago, I started to wonder how other people saw it as well. Your problem, I think, is that you're seeing this only from your own point of view. Think about how Catherine, or even Clive, must feel. If you were Clive, and you had all the same problems and sins as he does, what would you want? You're bein' selfish, what _you_ want can't always be the way things have to be. Sometimes things aren't meant to be fair." Carefully, he slipped the Hope Shard back in his pocket, rubbing his hands uncomfortably. "And all you can do is hope you are doing the right thing. Like treasure, justice can't be found _everywhere_."

Slowly and carefully, Virginia shifted her weight and sat up on the bed, setting her feet onto the cold stone floor. Jet was sitting right next to her. Turning, she looked straight into his eyes, the oddly unnatural violet hue, and took his hand again, trying to summon up her _own_ strength. "Justice can't be found _everywhere_…" She echoed, smiling ironically. "I suppose as a drifter, I should've known that by now. But you're right, Jet. I keep expecting to see justice because that's what I _want_ to see, and it probably won't happen as often as I want it to." Virginia looked up at the ceiling, feeling Jet's arm move around her back and draw her closer. "What _would_ Clive want?" She asked herself in puzzlement.

Jet snorted, the answer fairly clear to him. "What would _you_ want if you had a heap 'o bodies and guilt on your mind? What would _you_ want if you had killed and you knew you were gonna do it again? Simple question, if you ask me." The Airget-lamh was sitting quietly in Jet's lap, filled to maximum capacity with the bullets that would end Clive's suffering. He admitted this freely, he and Clive were still friends, and as friends, Jet would complete the task. Catherine was indeed a true drifter and human being, if she was able to realize this as well. From that moment on, Jet had finally found respect for her.

She lowered her eyes, leaning gently into Jet's side. "I would want to be stopped." She sighed, giving in. "You're right, and Catherine's right too, I shouldn't have yelled at her. She has enough stress to go through without me adding to the burden. Geez!" She shook her head heavily. "I must've sounded so unreasonable! I can be really stubborn at times." 

"I think the right word is 'bitchy'." Jet replied without thinking, not giving much thought to what he was going to say. Virginia shot a glare at him, and the young android suddenly feared for his life, whether he was armed or not.

So it was supremely fortunate that Gallows had decided it was the perfect time to crash their little conversation. Literally, _crash_. Bemusedly, Jet wondered if Gallows was the only person in the world capable of falling _up_ a flight of stairs, because that was exactly what the big Baskar did, stumbling to his knees at the top step and looking up at his two companions, impatience all over his tanned face. Suddenly conscious of the position both the young drifters were in, Jet and Virginia immediately broke apart, going red at exactly the same time. It was not in their intentions to be caught like _that_, but Gallows was too frenzied to notice. "Ginny! Jet! Come down here _right now_! All of us gotta talk, we've found somethin' _big_!"

xxx

As Jet and Virginia walked down the stone stairs of the Baskar house, Catherine glanced sharply up at them from the notes Shane had obligingly translated into plain english for her. She could still hardly believe her eyes, barely daring to hope that what she saw was true. Halle had the original copy nearby, and the elder was making her own conclusions based from the evidence Gallows had brought her. Suffice to say, it was truly amazing what he had found, Halle even had to catch herself from openly praising the boy near his friends, something she never would have thought of doing before. It looked like Gallows was actually good for something after all.

Catherine no longer looked as sad as he had a few hours ago, still melancholy and somber, but she was now carrying a vulnerable flicker of hope, showing up as a sense of pent-up release within her soul. Seeing Virginia walk slowly up to her, she smiled openly and hugged the younger woman, beginning to cry for an entirely different reason. The tears were one of relief, not sorrow. The drifter leader was surprised for a brief second, then patted her on the back as Catherine got rid of the obstruction hindering her composure.

Shane was beaming, proud at Gallows for his discovery. "There is still hope," He informed them all, lacing his hands together and smiling, "Hope in the darkness, hope in despair. With faith, hope can deliver us a better tomorrow." Bowing to no-one present in the room, Shane praised a particular Guardian lord openly, glad for it's indefinite support. "Thank you, Zephyr." Placing one hand over his heart, he drew a trail across his chest and bowed once more, the method one of acknowledging a prayer.

"You found something?" Virginia asked as Catherine broke the hug and wiped away her tears, never letting go of the piece of paper Shane had given her. She looked down on it again, it was a long and dangerous shot, but maybe they might have a way to save Clive's life from eternal damnation. Saying nothing, she passed the sheet to Virginia, letting the drifter draw her own data from the document. Her legs becoming weak, Catherine settled down in her spot next to the fire, close to her husband's ARM. It was a list of many different items, some Virginia had heard of before, but others unidentifiable and simply _outlandish_. "What _is_ this?" She asked, cocking her head to one side at Halle, from which she expected to get all the answers.

As Halle paced, she began to chant, the words complicated and foreign. "_Arnica, Aconite, Ambrosia, Mandrake, Curare_." Tapping her stick on the ground at the pronunciation of each word, she looked expectantly at her grandson, Gallows. "Now, prove to me you're not completely hopeless and inform the young lady of the significance of my mantra." Bizarrely, Gallows did not back down and grinned openly, nodding obediently to the elder.

"Sure! I may suck at everything else when it comes to Baskar religion, but herblore and chemistry are my _specialty_! It's just like cooking, you know!" Halle threatened him silently with her stick, prompting the priest to rush on further with his explanation. Gallows sweatdropped at the underlying intimidation and continued. "Anyway, I found these notes in the agricultural section of the history documents," He started to pace airily, like he was some kind of grand teacher conveying information to a bunch of eager students, "They're about six hundred years old, so I don't know how reliable they are, but they record a _lycanthrope_ case and the steps taken to fix up that specific mess." 

Shane took over momentarily. "This case was unlike all the others we had looked through. It was cured not with a silver purification, but a much more difficult and arcane one, for the inflicted lycan was none other than the son of the Baskar elder in that era. The threat of loss was so great that the family of the lycan made pilgrimages to the shrine of Odoryuk, the life Guardian, for advice on how to exorcise the curse cast over the body. Sacrifices were made, but their prayers were answered. Odoryuk spoke to the family, and gave them a complex formula to counter Luceid's influence."

Virginia's eyes widened. "A _cure_?"

Gallows was able to nod. "Yeah. It's a _cure_. But," He lowered his tone slightly, "According to this, we have to give it to him before the three days are up, and in his lycan form at that. So, we might have to fight him after all. And, these ingredients are bloody difficult to find, I don't know it we can get them all at this time of year. We can only hope." Gallows finished, glad that he had found a way to help.

Catherine laughed, relieved. "If Clive can save Kaitlyn, then maybe we can save _him_ after all! All we have is hope, but that is what will give us power and determination. I believe," She said with resolve, "I have faith in all of you."

Jet spoke up, verbalizing the collective thoughts of all the people in the house. He smirked. "Yeah. It ain't over yet."


	38. Doubt

He could see well in the dark. It was an odd kind of night-vision, brought about by his curse, or by the channelling of Boomerang, what the particular reason was, he did not know, but it ironically helped him dodge the peaking tips of rocks and stones that jutted from the sand he walked over. Clive's breathing was deep and uneven, every step he took sending a flare of pain up the nerves in his legs, unable to keep himself fully conscious for much longer. It was night, and the sky was overcast, the moon hidden, but even it's veiled presence tried to push away the last human fragments of his mind. Clive was only a fraction away from losing it entirely, knowing that it was just a simple matter of time before he could resist no longer. The horrible, loathsome curse, he couldn't fight it anymore. It was winning. 

Clive remembered this sensation from before, a gut-twisting nausea that felt like all his insides were being shifted around, and the joints in his body not working in the way they were supposed to. He still walked through the canyon with an indomitable perseverance, bent over like he was being pushed by unseen hands, with tears running down his cheeks for a reason he could not fathom or remember. Clive could sense exactly where the moon was in the cloudy grey sky, even though he had his back to it and was walking in the opposite direction, he could feel the searing burn of invisible moonbeams into his back, creating a stinging pain that was almost impossible to ignore. The night was cool, but Clive continued to sweat, his breath harsh and rasping.

Cleaning up his rest stop a little while ago, Clive had continued his march with a lowered spirit and a weary yet healed body, the wounds the crustacean had imparted closing up by themselves and leaving little more than a red mark and a bruise. It was nearly amazing how fast his injury had healed. It still hurt, yes, but the physical manifestation of pain had long gone. However, Clive wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, another pain had replaced it, and it was only a precursor to a complete mental degeneration. He knew it would be before long, as soon as the clouds went away, he would become a monster again. He would lose everything, both his heart and his mind. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

The creature of his dream, the lupine version of himself, stained red with blood. That was what he was going to become, fragments of memories connected with that form, all agony, suffering, death and murder, loss of life. His claws had grasped flesh, and tore, his fangs had sunk into a clothed arm, and pulled, the taste of blood was like that of copper, in huge quantities, spilt, all over the stable floors. There had been screaming, and the sound was strangely melodious to his ears, instilling bloodlust and frenzy. Travis had screamed, so too did Pike, one living, the other dead. Clive could remember the slight difference in their own blood, each type of blood was different, just like the difference between scent.

__

"Oh gods please stop it please stop it stop it NOW!"

Clive cringed, filled with shame. Pike had survived, and that made him the worst casualty of all. That night, he had crawled into a corner, huddled up into a little ball, his sobs and whimpers small, but persistent. The horses whinnied all around him, stamping their hooves and crying as he had ducked underneath their thrashing bulk, heading for the most defenceless target of all. Pike's voice had been high-pitched, his knees drawn up to his chin and pressed into the corner, eyes squeezed shut and denying the outside world.

__

"… Make it stop, please make it stop… gods… guardians…Guardians please stop it stop it **I'm begging you!**"

Pike's prayer had increased in intensity as Clive grabbed him, prying the boy out of his fetal position and seizing his leg, revelling in the broken shriek as he twisted the bone in the socket, hearing tendon and cartilage snap. It was wonderful, magical, euphoric. The shedding of blood and the demise of human life, it was all so gruesomely marvellous, he could still feel the blood running down his fur, warm and thrillingly vibrant. It had, Clive smiled on the inside, it had made him so happy…

"NO!" Clive cried out, dropping to his knees and viciously grabbing the sides of his head, shaking fiercely. "It's a lie! It's a LIE! I hate it… I hate it so much… Gods, why won't it end?!" Pressing one hand to his cheek, Clive rubbed away more tears and shivered, a cough melting into his uneven breaths. The sky above him was clearing, and he could no longer stand up under his own volition anymore. Thinning, slowly thinning, the outline of the full moon appeared in the sky, and Clive slammed both palms into the ground as if reacting to a sudden pain, digging his fingers into the sand. Separate from himself, he could hear his own voice talking in his mind, telling him the things he did not wish to know, and the feelings he wouldn't let himself feel. His other half, his sinister half, Clive could imagine the glowing red eyes, his demon half.

__

You hate it now, don't you? My friend, this is only the very beginning. Oh, if only you knew what the Guardians have in store for you, it would, perhaps, drive you mad. Heheheh…But look, you are already half mad right now! The moon instils it's own brand of lunacy into an individual soul. Clive, have you thought about this yet? If you **do **find Kaitlyn, then what will happen? 

"I… I will bring her home… to Catherine… so she can be safe." He answered after some strain, beads of sweat caught in his green fringe dripping down to dampen the sand. Clive began to pant slightly, finding it difficult to breath properly through his nose. The change had already begun, and the voices in his head were taking on a frighteningly new reality. He only had a few minutes left, even then starting to feel his skin burn and his stomach churn.

__

I have never met a more naïve person in my life! Of course, this is myself I am talking about, but still…Heh. Clive, what if you found her during the hours of the night, what would you do? What would the moon have you do? That boy, Pike, he was only a child… and yet you crippled him, forced to live a life of abhorrence and regret of the things he can no longer accomplish. A child…How does it feel to know you destroyed a child? Can you live with the threat of murdering your own flesh and blood? Kaitlyn may die… 

"Shut up… just shut up…" Clive growled through clenched teeth, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. He hadn't thought of that, and the voice was partially right. Though he had to rescue Kaitlyn from certain death, he himself was an extreme threat to her life. She was small and looked young for her age, weak, and the slightest pressure on her body with a pair of claws could rend the life from her body, far too easily. Like in his dream. Clive knew that the moon would give him no self-control.

__

And if she does die, then you will know the truth, that you have killed her. She **will** die…She is going to die…And you are not only going to watch, you will commit the crime yourself…with a huge smile on your face. Listen to hunger… listen to desire…the girl is yours to do with as you please…

"I said shut the _fuck_ up!" He howled in denial, shaking his head violently. How could he even _consider_ doing that to her? Kaitlyn, he _loved_ her, and would never harm her, not ever. Somehow he knew that when the time came for him to rescue her, he would still be able to maintain just that barest bit of sanity for her, just enough to get her home safely. As long as he could bring her home, that was all that mattered. He had done it before with Catherine, though it nearly cost him his eyesight, and he would do it again. Catherine…

__

Not only that, The voice continued, acting on Clive's wayward thought, _But should you rescue her, should you bring her home…What would occur after that? Catherine, dear sweet Catherine, just like the flowers that grow over a grave, strength in the midst of despair. Look at yourself! You are no longer human, you disgusting vile creature, demon. How can such a woman love you anymore, how can **anyone** even stand to look at you? Abomination…Fiend of the past…**Murderer**… You do not deserve to be loved…_

"No…" His voice was only a wounded whisper, the pain he felt in his body and the taunts of his own mind weakening the resolutions that held the rest of his sanity together. Clive was breaking. "…love her… lies…not true…" Vocal chords changing, his voice roughened around the edges before shifting entirely to a different frequency, losing his ability of proper speech. No longer able to talk, all Clive could so was cry, tears and sweat running in rivulets down his chin.

__

You have lost everything now, Clive. Nothing remains but your soul, and that is already soaked in the sins you have committed… yes… The demons will hold you close to their hearts once you die, not regarding the fact that you already **are** one! Hah! This is the end, your end. Even as you speak to yourself while your body changes, the others are already plotting the best way to kill you. I do not lie. Catherine holds your gun and speaks of the task at hand, it is a fitting way for a beast to die…Or perhaps, you will be the one to slay **her**, either way, you cannot escape your fate…

Clive growled to the voice, incapable of answering with words anymore. His skin felt like it was on fire, but he was also slightly numbed to the sensation, feeling pain, but not it's entirety, split in half. He could hear his own bones crunching into another shape, and before his hands could have a chance to change, he reached up and carefully removed his glasses from the bridge of his nose, stashing them away in his coat pocket. He didn't want to lose them again. Weakness replaced the pain after a while, and Clive leaned forward and lay down, feeling dizzy. Somehow he was assured that it wouldn't hurt anymore. As long as he gave in, the hurt would eventually go away.

__

I cannot escape… my fate…

A short while passed as Clive let the rest of the metamorphosis wash over him like a series of soft waves, the pain lessening with each surge. He felt entirely numb now, but as his cheek was pressed against a smooth flat rock, an obstinate little ant crawled onto his face and Clive instinctively raised a hand and brushed it away, his hands thicker and larger now, equipped with razor sharp nails. The change was finally over, and Clive closed his eyes and sighed, overwhelmed by the fatigue that clung to him, even in the form of a lycanthrope. Unlike the night before, something vaguely human stayed with Clive in his mind, a subtle reminder, though he could not remember what it was. A kind of temporary amnesia overtook him like a cloud, and he struggled to remember why he was here. He had a desire, but it was not impure. If only… he could remember… what it was…

__

Hunt… hunt… something. Find? Find something… something… hunt for something… can't… remember…

He pushed himself up from the ground again, trying to stand up properly and nearly tripping over his tail that annoyingly got in the way, struggling to maintain his center of balance. It didn't feel right to walk on two legs anymore, although he could not remember doing it in any other way. Clive automatically hunched himself over, his body too far into the lupine structure to stand up perfectly straight. Using all his mental processes, he tried to remember his mission, his desire. He was doing something _very_ important, he knew that, but what it was, he just didn't know.

Then he smelt something. Something familiar.

He dug his claw into one pocket, going over all he had in there and ignoring it, searching for the one thing that radiated a familiar scent. It had a tie to his mission, Clive strongly knew that. Roughly, he pulled out Kaitlyn's ribbon and looked at it through his night vision, the soft light blue colour somehow making a calming effect on his soul. It was short lived, though, as Clive remembered the reason why he was carrying it. She was gone, missing. His daughter was gone. Dropping back down to all fours, Clive held the ribbon in one claw and sniffed it inquisitively, re-memorizing the scent. His eyes, glowing bright red from the curse and sheer anger, narrowed in ferocity.

__

Find! … Missing… girl… cub… Find cub and bring back to mate… yes… find. Kill who… take cub away… hunt. **Hunt**…

Clive moved forward a little bit, sniffing at the ground. He put the ribbon back in his pocket and sensed no other animals nearby, including humans. They were far away from here, and he had to get close to them before he could begin his hunt. No longer crazed for human flesh, the lycanthrope now had a _different_ desire driving him, a powerful paternal instinct yelling at him to bring his daughter home. Rolling back the sleeve of one arm, Clive unexpectedly sunk his teeth into the flesh and forced dark blood to ooze out, inwardly recoiling from the pain but allowing the taste of blood to sharpen his senses even more, because he had no other animals around to do that for him. It was a small self-sacrifice, bolstering his chances to find the humans he sought. He would kill the ones who had taken his cub away, with gruesome pleasure.

Suddenly he sensed it, a small gathering of humans only a mile or so away to the northeast. The land was flat in that direction, and he could smell the smoke of a long-burning campfire. Trying his best mimicry of a smile, Clive uttered a barking growl and loped off in that direction, moving faster than a human ever could have done. Rocks and sand passed him like a disregarded blur, he moved downhill and silently swore revenge, the most horrible kind a monster could provide. In his current form, Clive had no problem killing those who needed to be killed, innocent or not. It was a bestial insanity, and he was stuck in the midst of it.

Reveling in the euphoria of the hunt, he uttered out a long and mournful howl, ambient and dragging in the night air, able to be heard by every occupant of the canyon, all at once. Whoever had taken Kaitlyn was going to meet death incarnate, and it was going to happen soon.


	39. Scars Of Leftover Memories

Night. The stars were like a fine powdered sugar over the all-encompassing midnight sky, a glittering veil spread above the sultry town of Little Twister, asleep and silent as the darkness itself. Every few houses, a light shone from a small window, the silhouettes of people moving around behind the glass. Every tavern was open and inviting, filled to the brim with characters of a less than savoury nature. Cheer, merriment and mirth echoed out of the pub's thin doors, the smell of lovely strong brewed liquor as familiar as the scenery itself. It was a night of many years ago, a long faded memory of the past.

Directly opposite the tavern, an abandoned old shack, bordered up at every window and door, creaked in the soft wind, empty and hardly showing the hint, that in fact, it was as occupied as any other dwelling in the town. Right now, almost all of it's inhabitants graced the presence of the all-hours pub, except for one, who reclined on the wooden rooftop, gazing with wide green eyes at the distant stars. He was young, about fifteen at the most, but he carried with him an air of wisdom and intelligence beyond his years, arms resting behind his head, cushioning him cosily. The night was far too warm to be uncomfortable, and he flicked ash from his cigarette out into the air, the breeze blowing it away.

"Hey, Swanky!"

He stiffened a little at the recognition of his nickname, but did not get up, well aware of who had addressed him. So, he was back early. A slight form pushed himself out of the hole in the roof and chimney, dusting away dirt from his already grubby shirt and pants. The little boy sneezed at the dust, wiping his nose with the back of a sooty hand. Little feet pattered on the rooftop, and a thump sounded, the boy taking a seat next to the sprawled teen. Ravendor looked at the boy, he was still mucky, so he must have just come back from either the pub or a job. "Good evening." He greeted, changing his mind on what the boy had been previously doing. He had a blunted pencil behind one ear and a sort of nebulous fatigue only inherent on one having just finished an intense study period. "How goes the study? Good?" He asked lazily, breathing in the cigarette smoke, tranquil.

The boy nodded eagerly, removing a soot smudge from his cheek and coughing a bit on Ravendor's smoke. He laid down in a parallel position to the teen, mimicking him exactly. "I'm done for the week," He murmured in a quiet tone, his voice tinged with a parochial southern accent, "It's about time, too. The Professor sent me some work on math, english and archy-archie… archymonology. It's really hard stuff, but I think it's interesting."

"'_Archaeology'_," Ravendor corrected, "Not '_archymonology'_, use proper pronunciation, please." The boy put a finger on his chin, sounding out the word silently with his lips. Ravendor's pronunciation did seem more correct than his own. He nodded and smiled. At a nearby house, glass broke and a man fell out the window, blood pouring from a wound to the face. Neither of the boys paid any attention to this, as such occurrences were common in Little Twister. "Where are the others?" He inquired, the house was still quiet, meaning that no-one else had come back yet.

"Ah, they're around here somewhere," Answered the boy, "What about you, did you do the stuff I told you to do, Swanky?" Despite his lack of a few extra years, the small boy outranked Ravendor by status, according to the rules governed by gang life, and the teen willingly followed his orders. Such things was common in the town, whoever had the ability to lead, did, no matter what the age or gender. This small child was the leader, and a mighty proficient one at that. He was only twelve, but his intense accuracy skills and an unnatural strategic talent made him a head honcho in the Little Twister gang rings. Who in their right minds would ever expect a child to be so deadly?

"Of course, sir. I am merely relaxing after the completion of my task. I took some notes and gleaned some more supplies, it went smoother than I had dared to hope." He smiled with satisfaction. "There was more dirt on the subject than I had anticipated, perhaps we shall be able to boost our treasury with the information." He fancied up the meaning of his 'treasury'. In the blunt truth, he was talking about a few bags of gella hidden under his bed, secure in a wooden box. He pulled out several folded pieces of paper, a listing of all the information they needed dotted down the page. He passed it to the boy confidently, brushing aside his long dark fringe.

He chuckled cutely at being called 'sir', nodding through the sentences he read on the notes, glad that he was one of the lucky few in this town that could actually read or write. "I know I was the one who was 'sposed to get it done, but I couldn't, 'cause they got my fingerprints on record. I'm just glad you were finally able to do it. Kaitlyn's been fretting over you again and Cathy said something about having to pay _your_ bail instead of mine. 'Course, I knew they couldn't catch _you_, Swanky." The boy looked up at the crisp cloudless sky, following Ravendor's eyes. Little Twister was not an overly mechanical town, so the sky was not swamped with steam and exhaust, leaving the dark heavens at her utmost glory. This was an excellent vantage point to stargaze, the dark-haired teen certainly knew the best spot to pass the time, that's for sure. "Pretty…" He murmured, smiling. Music came from somewhere, probably the tavern across the street, a guitar solo just distant enough to catch the general melody, but too far away to hear the actual notes being played. It was music for free, a gentle amenity.

"I was just wondering," Ravendor admitted, turning his head to see the young boy's clear blue eyes, "Why do the stars provide such comfort when they are so far away? Are they an ideal, or something more?" He put the end of his cigarette to his lips, taking a drag to help his ponderings along. It was not really healthy for a boy of his age to smoke, but Ravendor didn't really care about that. He had already resigned himself to a short life anyway, as long as he stayed in this seedy little town.

"Whoa," Breathed the boy, "That's deep." His gaze automatically strayed to a little starry cluster barely seen over the horizon. Every time he looked up there, he unintentionally found himself staring at that spot. It made him happy to see it, though he had no idea why. "I always thought it was different for every other person, but, well, I thought…." He scratched his head, mop of unkempt hair falling across his eyes. He seemed reluctant to answer.

"Do tell. I am listening." Ravendor reassured him, as close as a friend could get. He removed his peacemaker from his holster and spun it around on his finger, a subtle amusement until the boy could offer a reply. He had gone through hell to acquire his weapon, and ironically, it was the only thing in the world he had left from his short life as a Begucci, a weapon and despised memories. But that was not the focus of his thoughts, he was genuinely interested in what his friend had to say.

"I always thought," He said, blushing as he did so, "That maybe it's a shining place where all the good people go when they die. Y'know, like a heaven that all the preachers are talkin' about? I just like to think… that there's a chance Mother and Father might be up there, looking over me. Maybe they still love me, maybe they might even know my name." The boy yawned sleepily, it was past his designated bedtime and he had already burnt a little too much midnight oil than was appropriate. Thinking back on his parents made him feel awkward, perhaps the reason was because he did not even know what they looked like. He could only make a guess based on his own scruffy appearance and what a drunken drifter had told him about his mother. He had been told that she was a blonde, and, he added to himself with a sombre sigh, very cheap.

Ravendor lowered his eyebrows in confusion. "Are you telling me you believe your parents can be permitted into Heaven? After what they did to you?" He shook his head, his own beginning years had been difficult, but his young friend's childhood was nothing short of a nightmare. "You can be far too kind sometimes, Clive." With his thumb, he stopped the spinning of his gun and slipped it back into the holster strapped across his chest, looking at his companion with incredulity. 

The older boy saw depression visibly make a temporary impact on his younger leader. "Heh, me? Kind? I don't think so, but I like to try my best, I guess." He looked almost jealously at Ravendor's weapon, a fine and expensive ARM. He would give anything for an ARM of his own, they were so damn cool. "You're right, though. I should hate 'em, but I don't. I just can't, for some reason." Tactfully, Clive changed the subject. "Is Kaitlyn downstairs?"

The emotional depth in Ravendor's eyes almost tripled at the mention of that name. "I have already tucked her in. She is experiencing a rather good turn lately, I hope it lasts the season." Downstairs in the house, a small blonde child rested upon a soft mattress, long wavy hair strewn over her dirty white pillow. She was bed-ridden and terminally ill, how long she had left, Ravendor had no clue, but what he did know was that her time on Filgaia was short. "Kaitlyn, I shall miss her when… the inevitable occurs." He sat up and snuffed out his cigarette, as if the mention of her name made him stop wanting such luxuries, sadness milling around his presence. 

His leader slapped him on the back comfortingly, grimacing a bit as the soot on his palm left a dark handprint on his perfectly white jacket. Ravendor could not see this, so he kept his mouth shut over the subject. "Yeah, me too. I'm sorry, Swanky, I really am. I know you like her…" He forced a sympathetic grin, "I thought you two would go great together, err, at least that's what Cathy and I think." The boy's gaze fell to the wooden tiling he was sitting under, bluish and rotting a little bit from the precipitation they had experienced a few weeks ago. A trace of moss grew on the wood, he ran his finger over the growth, it was very soft. "Fuck," He cursed, thinking of the girl, "I don't want her to die."

"Language," Cautioned the teen, shaking a finger, "It gives you no right to resort to obscenity. Have Catherine and Berlitz taught you nothing?" Clive shot him a glare of annoyance, his youthful and exceedingly innocent face taking on all the temporary characteristics of his antithesis. Ravendor had overstepped his bounds on this one. He edged away from the boy in a sign of submission, holding up both hands. "Apologies, I know not for which I speak, but thank you for the concern."

"I wanna learn," Clive admitted in his timid voice, "I'll never get outta this hellhole town if I stay like this. I never really understood why you decided to leave home and come to this here place, if I had met you along the way, I would'a told you to keep away from this dump. Nothing good ever visits this place, and I don't think it ever will. 'Sides from Catherine and the Professor, of course."

"Honestly," Said Ravendor, closing his eyes momentarily and disliking the ancient memory he was about to summon up, "I like this town. It is very… informal and warm, when the townspeople are not trying to hunt you down, that is. It is hard to believe, and I do not criticize you for being sceptical over my opinion, but this place is much kinder than the home _I _escaped from. I like it here."

Clive shook his head, incredulous. A place worse than Little Twister did not exist in his universe. However, he was considerate enough not to contradict his friend. "But anyways, I wanna be like you, Swanky, so's I can see the world, and, and…" He always had many great plans for the future, but none of them involved him staying in his seedy little hometown. If he only had the money and security to pack up and take the next train east, he would have done so years ago.

"Be a proper gentleman?" Ravendor guessed. "It takes more than just speech and etiquette, my friend, but I have promised to teach you, and that is exactly what I shall do." Unexpectedly, he seized Clive in a headlock and roughed up the boy's hair, his smaller hands struggling with the teen's stronger ones. "I shall make a gentleman out of you yet!" He declared mirthfully, increasing his grip. "Now, how does one escape from this predicament with grace?" He asked the wriggling child caught in his trap.

"Aack! Lemme go! Owwww, you'll break my fuckin' neck, you bastard!" He cried, grabbing one of Ravendor's arms and trying to pry it away from his throat. Three fingers were pressed against his windpipe and Clive choked, gritting his teeth. He wasn't wearing any shoes, but despite that, he tried to kick Ravendor in the shins for a chance at freedom, but he was both too weak and too trapped to expect success.

"Ah, ah, ah." The dark-haired boy cautioned, smiling serenely like he was teaching a Sunday school class. "I have only just warned you about your language, never _ever_ say such uncouth words again, it is unseemly. Also, ask nicely and do not abbreviate your wording, perhaps then I shall let you go."

Clive went absolutely limp. "Let me go," He growled through clenched teeth, "Or you will break my neck, and if so, I will break yours."

"Hmm… I deem it close enough." Ravendor said, unwinding his arms from Clive's neck. He rubbed the sore flesh gingerly and looked like he wanted to say something in direct violation to the rules Ravendor had just set up, a small hand on the pencil behind his ear. Back in the place where Ravendor used to live, he would have instantly branded Clive a penniless nerd and left things at that, because he looked exactly the part, until one read through his criminal record and heard all about the reputation he had earned. "Keep things up, and you may even be able to pass as a chevalier someday. But remember," He added, "That you must fulfil your part of the bargain as well."

"Don't worry," The gang leader reassured him, "I'll teach you how to make do in this miserable place, it's easy once you learn all the tricks. And, of course, the best methods of strategy, real good mental ones that'll make your enemies wanna shoot themselves before even _you_ get a chance to. Trust me, I got a million of 'em." He cracked his knuckles, listening to the soft snapping sound that they made. "Now, c'mon. It's time I checked on Kaitlyn, I was putting it off until I found you."

Ravendor pulled himself up to his feet, sliding a little from the slick moss growing on their roof. "The way you run things around here, Clive, I am surprised that the others do not call you 'Patriarch', instead of 'Boss' or 'Sir'." Technically, their gang, the 'Black Shuck Gang' was a gathering of children who had nowhere else to go, but more than half the time Ravendor felt like he was living in an under funded orphanage than anything else.

The little leader was halfway in the hole of the roof when Ravendor said this. He paused halfway in and looked very confused. "What's a pa-tri-arch?" He asked, sounding out the word slowly in case he got it wrong. The older boy sighed and rolled his eyes, moving over to the hole and pushing Clive in with a hand.

"It means," Ravendor elaborated with a lopsided smirk, "That someday, you will make an excellent father." Clive made a disgusted face at that thought, for childishness still ruled his mind. Ravendor read his look better than any string of verbalized sentences ever could have. "Come off it," The youth scolded fondly, "The gods know that it will eventually happen to every decent man, I am hoping it will, at least, for me."

"You are weird." The child explained, imitating Ravendor's formal accent perfectly to annoy him. "I got enough problems without having to bring stuff like _that_ into my life. None of that for me, thanks. When _I_ become a drifter, I'm not gonna need all that baggage to haul around."

"I personally find the idea of a family quite a nice one." Said Ravendor, "You know I never really had a very good one for myself, but I wish to see what a happy family is all about." Fine, Clive could call him a weirdo, but the boy did not want to live the rest of his life by himself, even if he did have good friends to back him up.

His blue eyes blinked at him from the confines of his hole. "Well, if that ever happens, I wanna be an uncle!" He laughed, thinking the idea a ludicrous one.

Ravendor crouched down for a better look at his younger friend, flicking his long ponytail over his shoulder. "Only if the proposal is mutual." He smiled, seeing Clive nod and disappear into the darkness of the house. The green-haired boy was very bright and intelligent for a Little Twister native, but he did have a rather short attention-span when it came to thinking about the distant future. Well, who cared? It would be years until that time. Who was he to plan so far ahead? Ravendor had troubles now that needed to be worried about. His mood fell through the floor. 

His trouble was in the room below the soles of his boots, resting serenely.

xxx

Clive and Ravendor dropped down into the darkened room with absolute silence, only a slight creaking from the rats and cockroaches in the walls causing any sound at all. Ravendor reached up and blocked their entrance with a plank of mouldy wood leaning against the roof, because they had to make this abandoned house appear empty, or they themselves would wind up homeless. Clive moved to the bordered-up window, bereft of any glass, and expertly removed a few loose nails, pushing aside some wood and letting bright moonlight illuminate the barely furnished room.

"Kaitlyn, are you awake?" The dark-haired teen whispered, walking up to an old bed with a broken frame, ratty and insubstantial blankets covering a small and fragile figure, a diminutive wasted girl with the lightest wispy blonde hair, her eyes were half-closed like she was attempting to sleep, but failing. 

She turned and smiled weakly at Ravendor, wavy hair falling across her face. Her voice was tiny and a little laboured, reminiscent of a dying breeze. "Hello, Swanky. I thought you were… working tonight." Kaitlyn breathed, using a lot of energy to sit up straight, despite the dizziness it caused. She held her temple briefly, then brushed back her long hair, drawing her blankets around her.

Ravendor got to his knees near her bed, folding his arms on the mattress and looking at the girl with affection. She was the same age as himself, but because of her debilitating illness, Kaitlyn appeared much younger than she actually was. Still, despite that, nothing made Ravendor feel better than to be close to her, it tore him into a thousand pieces to know that all of them put together could not hope to muster enough gella to pay for a cure, or at least a doctor. They were poor, paupers, and because of that, Kaitlyn would eventually die.

"I finished early and decided to see you, Seraph." Everybody in their little gang had a nickname, Ravendor had fondly dubbed her 'Seraph', for the reason that her angelic appearance likened Kaitlyn to one of the heavenly messengers that appeared in so many books, and because of what the future had in store for her. She already had accepted her fate, and also the name, with a defeated smile.

Clive coughed, making a grossed-out face. He was still in the stage of his childhood where he believed all girls to be infected with cooties. "Well, I'm gonna go and see if I can find Cathy and the guys, or take a walk, y'know, I'll leave you'se alone." Kaitlyn and Ravendor both gave Clive a uniform salute as he exited through the window and onto the streets. He left the window open absent-mindedly, immediately ignoring the children still left in the house. A chain around his neck caught on one of the jutting pieces of wood and choked him momentarily, causing a string of un-childlike wording to emanate from the outside. He eventually freed himself and waltzed onto the bare streets, whistling a casual tune.

"A child… should not have to live the way he does…" Kaitlyn sighed, taking Ravendor's hand. "Nobody should…" Clive secured their income, he was the only one of their gang who had a steady job, an apprentice to a migratory professor who turned up every summer to work. That meant that Clive's 'business' became legitimate for a quarter of the year, at other times, he made ends meet in a much more sinister way. His switchblade hardly went without use for very long, and it grieved Kaitlyn deeply inside. Sure, he had to feed and house an entire gang all year round, but providing stuff like that was a job for an adult, not a little boy barely into his double digit years. Clive worked himself far too hard.

"It does not stop him, though." Ravendor observed, looking at the open window. "I think that a force drives him to try his hardest, whether it hurts him or not. Sometimes I believe that he is trying to punish himself for a deed that he himself cannot even remember." He placed a hand at her back, glancing at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I think… that he feels guilty for even being born in the first place."

Kaitlyn bit her lip, the thought making her feel uncomfortable inside. "I know his story… but he should not think of things that way. Our little leader… he always blames himself for everything, it is beyond sad… I wish I could help him…"

"Tomorrow, if you feel well enough, would you like to go for a walk with me?" The teen asked, changing the subject, "I will be careful to make sure you do not overexert yourself, what say you?" Through the pale spears of moonlight, Ravendor clearly saw the visible specks of dust float around in the natural light, swirling around Kaitlyn and his vision. The dust itself seemed to be illuminated by the moon, to Ravendor's eyes, it _did_ make Kaitlyn appear like an angel, a fragile angel of dust, celestial beauty withering onto the barren world, an innocent siren that the world had not wanted, or cared for. _Nobody_ cared for them, _nobody_.

And why should they? All the children in this seedy vessel of sin called a frontier town were accidents, orphans, and the homeless. By themselves, they were lower than the rats that swarmed in the summer for the sustenance to live on. Who cared for a sick child in this cold unfeeling world? He looked upon her soft pale hand, translucent in the light, the flimsy material of a home-made nightgown hardly covering her cold body. Filgaia was burning under the merciless sun almost all of the time, but loneliness continued to freeze their hearts and souls, a pain that never ended, a scar that could never heal. 

She pulled at a thread of her old blanket, pale azure eyes in a constant state of sorrow, even though her mouth was smiling. "I would like that, Swanky." She replied, sitting up was making her tired, and Ravendor helped her lie down, covering her over with the hardly adequate blanket. Kaitlyn looked up at him with her weary eyes and spoke again, whisper barely audible. "I need to tell you something. I don't think… I have much time left…"

He immediately grew flustered, a tiny tinge of red spreading across his cheeks, going into a subject that hurt too much for him. "We have discussed this, do not talk about-" His lips fell silent as Kaitlyn pressed one thin finger against them, making the teen go quiet. Like the weight was too much for her, Kaitlyn's finger drew down his chin and her arm lost all it's strength, flopping back over her stomach. She closed her eyes sadly, the dim light of the room hurt them terribly.

"There are a lot of children in this city… that deserve more than this… like our little leader, like Janus, he just turned six… I think… and Ian. I hate to know… innocent lives are being smeared black with sin… most will grow up to be villains and heartless murderers. That is what this town… what Little Twister does to the children, it robs them of purity… a gift that should _not_ be taken away. I look and Clive and I see… well, he is growing up far too fast. Swanky, when I die… please take care of everyone for me," She glanced at the window, the bright full moon was in the sky, so beautiful. "Especially Clive. He has… more potential than what he… believes."

Grief built up inside Ravendor, he leant over the bed and hugged the part of Kaitlyn that was not under the blankets, he was dark and she was light, together, both of them were completed. Though only young, Ravendor knew this could be none other than love. He _loved_ her, more than anything else in his tainted world. That was why it hurt so much to know, to know the truth. "I promise I will," He swore softly, tightening the hug, "But, I will _not _let you die." He hated to realize it, but a small trickle of clear liquid ran down his cheek, a long held-back tear. Ravendor was _crying_. "Please, never leave here. Do not go away, not ever."

She returned the hug, but her grip was much weaker than his. "I will try my best to live." Kaitlyn promised, pressing her face against his chest and closing her tired eyes. Her breathing was permanently laboured and uneven, but it reassured Ravendor that she was still alive to take breath. This brought him a lot of comfort.

He merely repeated himself, for that was the only prayer running through his young mind, as if repetition would make it true. The tear reached the very edge of his chin, breaking away and falling on Kaitlyn's flimsy nightgown, dampening the fabric. "I will _not_ let you die."

Yet he did, and she had, a slow lingering death, while fate forced him to watch every moment of it. He could still remember the exact moment, imprinted on him for all eternity, when Kaitlyn died.

xxx

And a little over a year later, as the turn of the seasons breathed life into the earth and stole it away again, so too did an angel return to the heavens, leaving a lost love behind. Spring, the air was fragrant with the smell of budding blossoms, if felt like the world itself was pleasantly perfumed, the mild, yet moving scent of flowers containing every perceivable hue covering the barrows at Sad Hill, the archetype of mourning. Ravendor visited every day, at the rise of the sun, abhorring the burning globe of fire for beginning a day without Kaitlyn's blessing, without her, the world was damned to fester and die.

The tombstone was just a simple rock with words carved into the front, it had taken Clive ages to get it _just_ right, it had to be perfect, nothing less would do. The boy had chiseled until his hands bled, hours and hours of work going into such a simple structure. Ravendor shook his head slowly, habitually drying tears that had already evaporated off his skin. His hands bore a bunch of purplish flowers, irises and the violet roses Kaitlyn had loved so much when she still had the strength to pick them. Dirt was clumped to the roots, pulled directly from the ground. She deserved fields and fields of flowers, not a dirty rock on a lost hill, somewhere in the wilderness. He read over the tombstone, a final epitaph that Ravendor had selected, a summarization of both their hearts perfectly, one lost to death, and the other cracked and shattered, ground into the barren earth until no desire to rise was felt. Empty, a vacant vessel.

_

Hope now, - not health, nor cheerfulness,  
Since they can come and go again,  
As often one brief hour witnesses, - 

Just hope has gone forever.

. 

- Kaitlyn Eastwood, XVI - 

_"Just hope has gone forever." Ravendor repeated, his young voice breaking from the tears within him, a hurt that never wanted to end. The movement was almost robotic, he tossed the bouquet of delicate blossoms upon the isolated grave, the sun rising directly above it as a guilty tribute. His bare hands felt empty without the blossoms, and this snapped something barely holding a floodtide back, his young and handsome face becoming burdened with shuddering grief, the boy holding a sleeve to his eyes to keep the tears back. Shoulders shaking, his sobs were silent, but most definitely there.

The sun finished it's birthing and became whole in the sky, telling him quietly that it was time for him to leave here, and discard all memories of her for the future. Well, the sun could have cracked in two and he would not have noticed, so deep was his suffering. His love, his Kaitlyn, was gone.

He turned sharply on his heel, barricading his true emotions behind an impenetrable wall of neutral indifference. He could be sad here, he could be a broken soul, but Ravendor's torment must only be an inner wound. Today, his gang needed him again, to be detached, cold, and ruthless.

That sunny spring morning, Ravendor's heart began to die, stolen by an angel of dust.

And nobody missed it.

Nobody cared.

xxx

The sound of a baying wolf far off in the distance snapped Ravendor back to his true place in Filgaia, lying on his old grey blanket in the middle of the night, the fire just a pile of lonesome ashes. Snoring came from the campsite, Romero and Dario sleeping soundly with their hostage nearby, her hands tied again so she could not escape, even in sleep. Antonio somehow slept sitting up, head drooping into his small chest with dark curls going everywhere. So much for a dependable night watchman. Kestorael was cuddled up next to Kaitlyn's side, head tucked under a dark black wing and huddled near her stomach. Ravens usually sleep peacefully in the treetops, but because of the lack of such luxuries, he had settled for the next best thing. Ravendor rolled over to his side, childishly drawing himself into a slight fetal position and releasing a shuddering expulsion of breath. Seventeen years later, and it _still_ hurt, as much as the day her wistful azure eyes had gone dull.

As anticipated, the burning behind his eyes could barely be forced away, manifesting differently as a tight lump in his throat. He swallowed hard and rubbed his eyes with the back of a hand, supremely glad that he was the only one awake. That girl, that angel, just thinking about her weary face stabbed him like a dagger in his heart. It had been a long time since he had remembered such things, what had caused it? The other Kaitlyn, Clive's child, that could only be it. She looked like Catherine, but bore the golden hair and name of Kaitlyn, she was the symbol of _both_ his lost loves.

__

Damn you, Winslett, Ravendor thought in a whisper, hands clasped near his face, feeling lost in a sea of emotion, _Why must you remind me? You have happiness and I do not, why do you continue to rub it in my face?_ His thoughts became darker, _You… you stole it away from me, you took it away, all of it… away. You cursed me for your own personal satisfaction, and made me no less than a monster… Do you realise… what you have done to me…?_

A monster. Not bothering to sit up, he rolled over to the side facing the campfire, using the weak light to look at the stigma that would forever mark his body. His accursed tattoo. If it were not for this, maybe Ravendor could have managed to live a peaceful, yet severely wounded life, but fate had always hated him since the moment he was born. The dark-haired man could get no rest. The tattoo was just one simple sentence branded with a deep dark ink into the front of his forearm, nothing more, but that only made it all the worse. Going over the sentence in his mind for the millionth time, Ravendor hated Clive with a vengeance that a sane man could never feel.

****

SERIAL EXPERIMENT : _Hyades _/ PROTOTYPE : #001 / STATUS : _Alteration and Corvus Corax Deoxyribonucleic Acid Mutation _:_ Successful_

"I despise that dream." He muttered out loud, for the most transient of moments, moonlight illuminating the specks of dust hovering around his face. He pulled the top part of his blanket over his head and tried to go back to sleep, by tomorrow morning, the feeling would be gone and he could lead again, but until then, all he was made him a broken lover.

In the wastelands of Filgaia, Ravendor was always destined to be alone.


	40. Schrodingers

Like a cunning hawk, Maya Schrodinger stared at the slightly yellowing pages of her novel, looking at the words through the pale firelight, but finding her focal point of interest hovering just above the written words. It emitted a tiny humming noise that was easily standing out in the silence of the campsite, buzzing around with ignorance and pompous bliss. It was almost like it owned the joint. Maya hated mosquitoes. Her eyes slightly narrowed in muted loathing, she watched the insect loop a few times in the air and settle upon one of the pages, hairy legs splayed outward and wings folded. The mosquito didn't know what hit it as Maya immediately snapped the book shut, offering the annoyance a swift and painful death.

Waiting a few seconds for the impact to set in, Maya eventually opened the book again, seeing a greasy smear of the unfortunate insect all over the page, a slight patch of stolen blood marking the paper like ink. Well, that was one less bloodsucker left in the world, that was for sure. Swiftly, she set her gloved hand on the page and wiped away the gunk before it could settle, yet that lingering bloodstain continued to remain. It was too bad, the book she was reading was a first edition too. A repeated harsh noise resonated throughout the campsite every so often, the noise one of steel striking aged wood, making an indentation in the grained surface but not creating a deep enough cut. Todd was practicing again.

An old deadwood tree left to die in the wasted canyon offered Todd the chance to hone his fast draw skills, the man striking the flaking trunk of the deceased plant with the edge of his blade, tearing small welts into the surface. Each blow carried the swordsman's strength with him, and the object of his practice was to decrease the time length of each swing, making his technique even more powerful. The object of the fast draw skill was to finish the attack before _anybody_ could have a chance to react. In addition, he was also cutting firewood under his master Alfred's direction.

The youngest member of the team was sitting near the fire, the strange cat-like creature called Shady curled up in his lap and devouring his evening snack, spreading crumbs all over the place. Every so often a little puff of smoke would escape from his mouth as the feline chewed, a fire-breathing critter that he was. Alfred tried to work on his small compact computer with the cat in his lap, arms around Shady with the console resting on his furry head. He made a good, though unorthodox, workbench. "So," Alfred murmured, the grey screen of his computer lit by the campfire casting a reflection over his blue eyes, "Where did you say we were going again, Sis?"

Sighing loudly, irritated, Maya closed her book again and crossed her arms, leaning against a rock jutting out from the ground and slanting a little to the right, like a huge headstone for a giant's grave. "I told you already, we're heading for the Abyss." She replied in her usual condescending tone, leaning forward as she spoke to her kid brother. "We're not that far, just a few more mountains to cross and we'll be there." Resting the book in her lap, Maya picked up a foiled object and peeled back the wrapping, eating her dinner that consisted of dried meat and water. The teams had already eaten their fresh reserves and had moved onto unappetizing rations.

"Hiking then, I guess." Said Alfred, turning off his computer and snapping the lid closed, tucking the contraption away in his pocket. Thinking over his sister's plan, the timid boy found that he had to ask her a question creeping around in the back of his mind. "Why do we need to go there? The only things within that ruin are darkness and nothing else. Not many people come back from that place, and they say it isn't very-"

"Aha!" Maya exclaimed, pointing at Alfred accusingly with a finger. "That's the kind of attitude that brings a good drifter down! Don't overestimate things, especially when it's been subject to tons of rumor! Look, that's the place where we're goin', and I'm sticking to it." Clambering to her feet, Maya set both hands on her hips and looked at the boy contemptuously, secretly wishing that he could somehow grow himself a true spine. Using her trademark smirk, she continued. "They say the gems in that ruin are more priceless than any other on this planet. They shine a clear blue and generate their own source of light, even in the darkness. Only someone like _me_ deserves to possess them!"

Shady snickered, sniffing the smoky air. If there was one thing he learnt from his team leader, it was that it would take more than the demon race to bring her down, or even change her mind. Maya was as unyielding and resilient as the planet Filgaia itself. "You ain't gonna change her mind," He said quietly to Alfred, wiping the crumbs off his orange fur and purring a little because he was contented and well fed, "Nuthin' short of the apocalypse can."

"I know." Alfred sighed, resting his chin on one hand. "Oh well. I don't really mind a hike, anyway. And I'm sure the Abyss can't be all _that_ bad. Besides," He brightened a little, smiling slightly, "We still have Todd to rely on if anything goes wrong." The boy turned to the older man who had finished his practice training and was stacking firewood not too far away, the sword in it's saya hanging harmlessly by his side. He was their protector, and Alfred couldn't even remember a time when the swordsman wasn't there to help. Even as small children, Todd had always been charged to protect them.

Glad that she had once again made her point, Maya unfolded her arms and glanced at the sky, the thick clouds becoming patchy and showing the perfect white sphere of the full moon, it shone so much in the night that it was almost like a gem in itself, which made Maya instinctively appreciate it's presence. An opaque diamond, made of the purest ivory, that was what the moon was, to her. Beautiful. Rubbing her cheek and then stretching, she came to a decision that only she could resolve. "Alright. Night-watchman, who is it gonna be this time?"

Todd was too quick for everyone else. "I volunteer." He announced, bowing a little to the leader. "Allow me to do so tonight, milady. I do not mind at all." Running one hand through his frizzy black afro, he adjusted his purple-tinted sunglasses and smiled, looking eager to help. A period of crickets chirping took over the campsite momentarily, the head Schrodinger considering Todd's proposal carefully. Shady puffed out some more smoke, creating little balls of fumes in the air. Finally, Maya spoke.

"Nope." She answered him. Todd just looked blank for a good few seconds, then he blinked, not expecting that kind of a reply. When he tried to offer a rebuttal, all Maya did was raise a silencing hand and he immediately shut up, not wanting to talk back to her. "Look," She continued with the air of one who had already won the argument, "You're a good watchman and all, our best, you know, but you've been doin' it for nearly a week now, don't you think you could do with an uninterrupted sleep?"

"But I-" He began.

"Uh-uh!" She argued before he could finish his sentence, shaking her finger and grinning, "No buts! Shady's doin' your job tonight, and there's nothing you can say to change that." The cat winced at the proclamation of her order, loving sleep almost as much as food. Todd slumped and Alfred nodded his head, agreeing with his older sister's idea. The man _had_ been overworking himself lately. Exhaling a long breath, the swordsman made a motion of agreement with her, obeying Maya's command, what the deceased Lord Schrodinger had ordered him to. He had been beaten.

Then, without any warning, the entire drifter team jumped as an unfamiliar sound cut like razor sharp knives through the area, long, melancholy, and somehow frightening. It was quiet and very far off, but also much too close for comfort. It was an eerie howl that chilled everyone present to the bones. Alfred shivered. "S-sis?" He murmured, voice a little uneven in mild fear, "What was that?"

Maya huffed, trying to cloak her own dread at the sound of the noise. It struck something in her instincts that made her feel uneasy. "Ah, it's just a lone wolf," She explained airily, looking disinterested, "Don't worry. They don't attack humans if the odds are against 'em. Now," She reached down and picked up her favored book, holding it under one arm, "Go to sleep soon. I'm gonna retire. Shady," She turned to the cat, "Don't you _dare_ fall asleep at your post, 'else you gotta answer to _me_." The comprehension on the feline's face told her he understood and she walked over to her pitched tent, being the only person who needed one, because she was a 'lady of quality'. Getting to her knees and crawling inside, where all her most important possessions were, she stuck her head out one last time and scanned the area, her golden hair set slightly red by the fire. "G'night all!" She called out, receiving her own share of 'goodnights' before going back indoors and preparing for a long night's sleep. She would be indisposed until morning.

Todd and Alfred just lay down on their thick and comfortable blankets, the starry sky their endless roof for the night. They didn't need tents, anyway. Not on such a marvelous night as this. Shady bemoaned his misfortune for awhile, yet eventually found entertainment in seeing how many smoke rings he could create in a certain time with his flame breath, amused. Everything became quiet, and sleep was achieved by almost all.

It would be very, _very_ short-lived.

xxx

Catherine could barely keep up with Gallows as he ran backwards and forwards between his house and Mearas waiting patiently outside, carrying with him all the equipment needed for a small journey. He had just been in a conference with Shane and Halle, then he had suddenly begun to rush around like a fast-approaching deadline was near. He didn't even have time to answer the confused Catherine as she followed him, her eyes full of worry. The Baskar set his hands against Mearas's side as he tacked up the steed, hastening through the procedure at a phenomenal rate. Gallows was about to leave, and she didn't know why.

So she did the only thing she could do, the best method for success in her situation. When the man wasn't looking, trying to juggle some blankets and a bag of unusual tools at the same time while walking over to his horse, Catherine reached out, grabbed him by the ear, and demanded answers. Truly startled by the woman's approach, he dropped both items and the tool bag landed on his foot, filled with heavy metal implements. Tearing himself away from her by the pain, he hopped up and down on one foot for a short while, grunting curses. Seeing her chance, Catherine strategically placed her own foot out near him and the priest expectantly tripped over it, falling on his derriere and groaning. Leaning over him, Catherine graciously offered Gallows a hand up, which was accepted promptly.

"Ow… Why'd you do that?" He moaned, trying to rub his backside and his ear at the same time, his voice exceptionally whiny. Stooping to pick up his stuff again, he slung the tool bag over his shoulder and watched Catherine pick up the blanket, lending a helping hand. Batting away a moth from his face, some fires lit nearby offered a little light in the dark outside of Baskar Colony. He could see Catherine's face, and she looked beyond perplexed.

"You're packing, aren't you? What's going on? Why are you leaving?" The woman asked, rolling the dropped blanket back into a more compact state, able to be attached with ease to a horse's flank. Going at a much slower pace than before, Gallows and Catherine walked back over to Mearas, waiting patiently for the departure. Whinnying gently at the return of his master, Gallows patted him briefly and stuffed his tool bag into a pouch near the saddle, saying something quietly to the animal in his own native tongue.

"Geez, Jet and Ginny didn't tell you yet?" The Baskar questioned her, scratching his head and looking quite restless, "We gotta mix up this cure, ya know, and that means we need _all_ the ingredients. There are some we don't have with us right now, so me an' the others are gonna go and get 'em." He reached out and took the blanket from her arms, securing it tightly to the black stallion with the help of a few small straps. "I'll be back soon, don't you worry about me." He grinned and patted the horse again, seeming to be unconcerned with the extra weight he was being forced to carry.

"Just don't fail miserably, and I'll be happy." Halle called from the threshold of the Caradine house, her aged voice piercing and cracked. Slowly, she made her way over to Gallows, Catherine and Mearas, unhindered by the darkness that shrouded the area. Smirking, she held up something very important and overlooked by her young grandson, to Gallows's increasing embarrassment. "You forgot this."

Going red and becoming even more embarrassed, Gallows took his Coyote ARM from his grandmother with respect and chuckled self-consciously, mentally scolding himself for being so forgetful. "Okay then," He said while hoisting himself up on Mearas's back, "I'll be back by tomorrow, or even earlier, if I can. I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight, but hey, it's for a good cause. I won't let you down, Granny!"

"Well, _those_ are famous last words if I ever heard 'em." Halle replied, shaking her head before becoming far more serious. "I think I have every ingredient for the cure in the storeroom, except for two. The herb Arnica, which _you_ have to find for me, and the herb Aconite, which the other two drifters have chosen to locate. Thank the Guardians you have the easier task, because at least I know where you can find some. Head south to the foot of Mt. Zenom, the herb grows there in this season, but you _must_ hurry, Arnica dries quickly after picked, and it is the juices that are crucial for the antidote."

"What about the other one?" Catherine asked, the way Halle chose to describe it, it didn't seem like the old woman knew where it was. She turned around as she heard trotting behind her, seeing Virginia's pure white mare come to a stop only a few feet away. Stybba was also geared for a journey, and Virginia held the reins while Jet sat behind her, double-mounted and ready to leave. It looked like Jet's horse had been giving him trouble again.

"Aconite is a _very_ rare flower, almost impossible to grow and raise, it is a light purple colour and it used to grow in the flower fields around the more humid areas of Filgaia. Now it is practically extinct." Halle explained sullenly. "If you can find some, then you will be performing more than your share of miracles. This plant is sometimes referred to as _Wolfsbane_, if that helps you any in your search."

"I think we might have an idea," Virginia informed them, "We'll try our very best. I _promise_." She looked down at Catherine and smiled sadly, "We can save him. I know we can. And… if we can't…" She swallowed hard to continue, "Then we'll end it for him. We will end it all." Catherine nodded, still clutching her aged notebook tightly, like a lifeline. She felt small around the group of mounted drifters, small and unable to help.

Jet leaned forward and looked over Virginia's shoulder at the Baskar elder, barely seeing the top of her head from his inhibiting vantage point. Awkwardly, he added his own blunted input. "Uh… 'Bout those miracles," He muttered softly, "I just wanted to say that… If there really _are_ such things as miracles, then loudmouth over here can do 'em, hands down." And in an incredibly rare and valuable occasion, Jet smiled sincerely, violet eyes open to the world.

It somehow made Catherine feel a million times better. "Thank you." She said with deep feeling, "Thank you all." She had never known that Clive had such wonderful friends like this, _true_ friends. If only he could see it now. These people _loved_ him, even the stoic Jet, who was an asshole nearly twenty-four seven. Gallows, a great friend to anybody and everybody, fun to be around, and especially Virginia, where she could not even begin to describe her many virtues. Yes, true friends. Having an idea, she turned to Gallows, determined. "Please, take me with you. I want to help."

The priest opened his mouth to reply, but Halle silenced him. "No." The elder said with authority. "Your place is here, with Shane and I. You, dearie, are an important part of the antidote's formation. It will not work without you."

"Me?" Catherine wondered out loud, "But how-"

"I will tell you later." Halle explained, gradually hobbling back to her house, leaning on her walking stick. "Just wish them luck and come with me." The two horses whickered quietly to themselves as Catherine moved between each one and softly wished the mounted drifters luck, patting each animal delicately and feeling like she was moving within a dream world. Clive's humanity rested in the hands of his teammates now, she hoped to the Guardians that they would not fail. But she could trust them, Catherine knew she could. Following Halle back into the house without looking back, the woman knew that she must trust her leader with her husband's life, and in doing so, also the life of her daughter.

__

I beg you, Virginia, Gallows, Jet… Save my family…

Two horses, one pure white, the other, darkest black, rode out into the night. It was uncertain if they would ever return.

Catherine shivered, then she closed the door.


	41. Pangs Of Nature, Impure Lust

(A/N: There are sexual references in this chapter. I warn younger readers of it's questionable content. Of course, this was gonna happen eventually so I guess it can't be helped. However, should you decide to sue me over it, all you would get is a few half-empty cans of Pepsi Max and a pile of yaoi manga, so give up now while you're ahead. Heh, enjoy! ^_^)

Hours later, the trail that he followed lead him to a small camp in the flatter areas of Dune Canyon, he was panting from the long run, but exhilarated by the adrenaline pumped in excess through his system. Clive climbed up a few tall rocks and looked down at the campsite below, wondering if the object of his hunt resided within that area. He had to find Kaitlyn soon, his time was running out. Carefully trying not to slip, he scaled down the pile of rocks and dropped onto the flatlands, keeping low to the ground to avoid being spotted. He could hear snoring and the intake of breath nearby in a steady rhythm, suggesting deep sleep, so he loosened the severity of his stealth mode and snuck into the edge of the camp, making no noise whatsoever.

A fire burned in the center of the area, he avoided it, abhorring bright lights and staying in the darkened shadows. But, people were ringed around that fire and he had no choice but to investigate, shyly creeping up to the fire and looking away from it as best as he could. He found two people sleeping peacefully, one was a young blonde-haired boy barely into his teens and the other was a middle-aged man with the weirdest fashion sense Clive had ever seen. He sniffed them both, checking to see if they matched the scent of Kaitlyn's kidnappers. Fortunately, they didn't, and Clive decided to let them go, not feeling particularly hungry or bloodthirsty enough to end their lives. 

Not too far away was a small cat-like creature purring serenely and snoring, curled up into a little ball and oblivious to the world. Shady had tried his best to stay awake, but unsurprisingly, had failed. Hearing the cat make a soft meowing noise, Clive passed him over without a second glance, wanting to get away from the fire now that he knew nothing important lay there. He saw something different a little further away, something that may hold promise or clues to his hunt.

The tent, a light pale yellow, stuck out easily in the darkened shadows of the night, a short way away from the smouldering fire, looking strangely inviting and appealing. With a co-ordination belying his mismatched form, Clive crept over to it's shuttered entrance and noticed a faint light shining from within, probably from a candle left lit, most likely. He smelled the area out for intruders, detecting the unmistakable scent of humans, but mostly focussed on the female aspect of that species, because it was a female human child he was searching for. He could definitely smell a human female, _very_ close by, but she would be much too old to fit Kaitlyn's description, Clive still could not find her.

He leaned back and sat on the dusty ground in a more or less human sitting arrangement, crossing his legs and remaining fixed on the yellow tent, a low canine whine conveying his crestfallen attitude to his hunt. Clive had been searching for hours and he _still_ found himself wandering around in the dark. These humans, they were _not_ the ones he was looking for. From the scent leads Clive had found, this place was nothing more than a miserable red herring. Whining again, he leant over and poked his nose into the tent, a little curious as to what lay on the inside. Maybe it bore a clue to Kaitlyn's whereabouts? He might as well find out. The air inside was a little warmer from incubation in a candlelit area, dimly illuminating and inviting. Clive cast a dark shadow over the yellow fabric walls, silhouette moving with him as he quietly entered the tent, finding the inside to be much smaller than he would have estimated from the outside.

Most of the space was taken up by personal belongings, a gatling ARM and a small revolver left huddled in the corner with tools spread around it, mixed with some feminine care products and spare clothes crumpled over and disregarded by it's owner. A small candle dribbled wax beside a pile of old-looking books, the covers dull, dreary and leaving no imagination to what lay inside. Thick and dog-eared, one such book still rested in the clasped hand of a sleeping human, having fallen asleep while reading, most likely. She was lying on a dark orange blanket that was spread like a carpet across the ground, creased from the motions she clumsily made in sleep, but fairly undisturbed. No second blanket covered her body, because the night was far too warm to require such a luxury. Sprawled out and utterly defenceless, Maya Schrodinger slept calmly with a werewolf leaning over her, unsure on what to do.

She was wearing a scanty nightgown made for high temperatures, coloured bright gold and fairly simple in design, it covered all the parts of her body that needed to be hidden and left everything else showing, the hem of her gown short and high above her knees, but still offering privacy. It didn't look like something an experienced drifter should wear, but Maya _did _have a noble bloodline and own expensive things, so it made a little sense. She snored softly, leaning slightly to her left and clutching the book still, her hair loosed from her blue ribbon and messed up after some tossing and turning. Clive just stared, transfixed like any other man would have been in his immediate predicament. There was a barely clothed woman lying asleep right in front of him, and nobody else was around to stop him from doing whatever he wanted.

Clive leaned over more, reinforcing his balance by pressing one claw to the ground near Maya's face, inhibited by the small dimensions of the tent to stand up properly. Emitting a low rumbling growl that was totally non-threatening, the lycan flicked an ear and tried to sense if other people were around, knowing that if a woman was left unguarded, men couldn't be too far away. Clive still had enough coherence left to know that he didn't want to be caught, because that would wreck his mission utterly, and… and…

He couldn't remember. What was he searching for again?

The entrance of the tent closed behind him as he shuffled entirely into the chamber, both claws planted a few inches away from both sides of her head and trying his hardest not to lose his balance and fall on her, still a tad uncoordinated in his new and more powerful form. But somehow, this didn't feel right, a distant memory bugged him though he didn't know what it was, like a nasty splinter that he couldn't get out. It felt _wrong_, amnesia combined with an indecent kind of desire burning through his system. The darker side of desire, lust.

__

"Remember these three things, no matter what… One, I love you…"

Clive all of a sudden felt like he had just been clubbed, the flash of a recent memory spearing through his mind. The voice in his head was memorable, unforgettable. He knew it like he knew his own soul, but the meaning of the words was like undecipherable static in his head, he just couldn't understand plain english anymore. But the voice was soothing and it made him feel better, though no memories returned to offer him direction. All Clive could do was rely on his instincts, and in his current form, it wasn't a very good action to take.

"…M- aaaate…" He growled with intense difficulty, stretching the word along the first vowel and stumbling over the consonant that came after. Some dark blood from his self-inflicted injury trickled sluggishly down his arm, ensnared in certain places from hindering strands of fur, making a little trail. Clive raised his arm and licked the blood off, noting that it was still warm and the small wound stung every time he touched it. Regarding Maya, he was still conflicted, knowing what he wanted but feeling reluctant to take it, because a force told him that it was bad, wrong. He already had a mate somewhere, he faintly remembered her face, but it was blurred and hard to make out. He loved someone else… someone…

__

"I think I understand why I married you!"

Growling again out of frustration for the things he could no longer remember, the lycan tensed suddenly as Maya made a little noise in her sleep and rolled over to her right side, dragging her old hard-cover novel with her and sighing, seeming to be a million times more helpless and ladylike asleep than she could ever act while awake. One loose thin strap of her golden nightgown slid off her shoulder and Clive simply couldn't take it anymore, moving down and licking the woman carefully on the cheek, noticing that she smelt like some kind of unusual perfume, vanilla, he thought absently, or maybe something else. He felt guilty over what he had just done, despite instinctual knowledge telling him that he was allowed to be as uninhibited as he wanted. And what he _wanted_ right now was Maya Schrodinger herself. Besides, was it not customary for a dominant male to take a concubine if his mate was not readily present?

Forcing all of his weight onto his left arm, Clive removed one claw and fumbled with the button and zipper on his fly, fiercely aware that his dark coloured pants were far too constricting right now for his own personal comfort. The light flickered in the tent and he tried to remain quiet, focussing on Maya's deep breaths and trying to free himself, wishing that the tent was a little bit bigger so it could offer him more room. Yet, something small and overlooked remained in the back of his mind, alongside his memories and human reason, the moral aspect of himself that had been banished to the far reaches on consciousness by the presence of the full moon. It was horrified, and scared.

__

Stop this now! You love Catherine, do you hear me?! Catherine! No, stop it… I would never… do anything like this…

Catherine? The name rung a bell somewhere in his head, but Clive found he had no face or recognizable thought to connect it to, the word like a broken fragment in the stream of his mind. He forgot it quickly, it had no meaning for him, anyway. The small voice spoke more, but the lycan could not understand it, happy to ignore the nuisance and continue with what he was doing, sating his impure lust. 

Try as he might, his clawed fingers were unable to manipulate his zipper in the way that he wanted it to, making Clive snarl quietly in lack of fulfillment and give up without much of a fight, content to lever himself down on top of the sleeping Maya and lick her face again, forming a noise that was almost close to a purr in it's frequency. The woman was very warm, and he was still freezing cold, much too cold to think of himself as alive. The werewolf rubbed himself up against her body, taking pleasure from the friction and panting in an almost perverted way, while the Clive on the inside turned away and vanished to places unknown, losing his own battle of morals against himself. The lycan barely noticed it's departure, and didn't not even remember it being there in the first place. Past and future did not exist to him anymore, his mind only capable of handling the present, stuck somewhere between wolf and man. 

However, what Clive was now totally unaware of as he pleased himself, Maya was by now very much awake. She had woken up only a few seconds ago as she felt her toes being tickled by a long bushy tail being swept over them in a wagging motion, immediately snapping to reality and letting her body just go limp, suppressing the fury boiling up inside her. A pissed-off Maya Schrodinger was a force to be reckoned with, easily matching up to the demons in barbarity. Had she been any other type of girl, she would have screamed bloody murder and hoped that her comrades could hear, but _Maya_ was no sobbing maiden to be rescued, no, she was a hardcore experienced drifter, and _nothing_ left on this wasteland planet would ever force her to act so weak. The first thing she told herself to do was act calm and; _'Figure out how to get this fuckin' monster offa' me!'_

Slowly so as to avoid detection, Maya's hand tensed a little and inched it's way along the possessions lined near her makeshift bed, identifying each one by touch and hoping to the Guardians that at least _one_ of her ARMs were close by. She found a nail-file, a canteen of water, and a box of matches. _Dammit!_ She cursed, _Isn't there **anything** I can use?_ Taking a risk and carefully opening one eye a slit, Maya had to bite back a curse as she saw the beast in question, instantly aware that she couldn't win a fight of strengths against _that_ creature, unless she found some way to surprise it.

She curled both her hands into fists, longing to beat the creature off with a huge piece of rusted metal for even _thinking_ about touching her like this, wanting to call it every name under the sun and then finally _kill_ it, the horrible licentious thing. Startled when she felt that two of her fingers were pressed between the pages of a book, Maya rapidly remembered what she was holding and fought back a grin, estimating the gross mass of her novel. It was written well over fifty years ago, so it was thick and clunky, heavy. It would be perfect to use, all she had to do was gain a better grip on it, she just needed a few more seconds…

Clive barked out a surprised yelp as he was suddenly knocked to one side by a sturdy novel smashing him in the face, his mind reeling from the abrupt shock and his resolutions scattered. Maya immediately jumped into action, grabbing him viciously by the shoulder and using her other arm to sweep Clive's out from under him, losing his balance and falling to the side. Taking this chance, she kicked him hard with a bare foot and struggled to her feet, forgetting that she was inside a small tent and hunching over because of it. The lycan's reflexes were too slow and inept as he tried to regain stability, hitting the weak cloth side of the tent and pulling out the support pegs holding the structure up, causing the shelter to collapse in on itself.

Now both of them were in trouble as the canvas covering tangled them up together, Maya desperately trying to beat the lycanthrope away, and Clive frantically attempting to get out and run away. It was a flurry of kicking and punching, furious screaming, howling, snarling and cursing. Eventually, Clive had the idea of shredding all the cloth that got in his way with his claws, rending a hole in the covering and squirming out, dropping down to all fours at once and growling at the person left inside, the right side of his face stinging from the unexpected blow. The fabric settled after a while, Maya emerging from one great hole in her practically indecent nightgown, hands on her hips and frowning in a way that would make Siegfried himself flinch and cower. Her fingers still in-between the bookmarked page, the disturbed drifter seemed to be ready to use her special power at any given time, like a ticking time bomb.

Hackles raised and tail puffed out in aggression, Clive took a few tentative steps backwards to add some space to the battlefield, not taking his glowing red eyes off Maya for an instant. As soon as he had discovered that the source of his facial pain came from her, she had promptly been dubbed an enemy, female or no. Clive would defend his dominance against anybody who threatened to take it away from him, he would kill if he had to. Actually, he would do it with pleasure. Raising himself up onto two legs again, Clive leaned forward and roared out an incoherent threat, baring a set of wickedly curved fangs.

Maya narrowed her eyes and raised her book, shaking her head slightly. "Alright, you perverted mongrel!" She cried, brushing away her mussed-up blonde hair and displaying her token smirk, "Have a taste of this and hope to the Guardians you don't choke!" With this intense threat, she opened the book, the area momentarily lighting up with a blinding flash of light, forcing Clive to turn away for a second, whining and disliking the sudden brightness that hurt his eyes. It died down after a moment and Maya stood proudly in a different outfit, a green and white ninja gi with her long hair pulled back into a ponytail. Clive had seen this before, but was unable to remember where. "Now I am the 'Fighting Artist', from the best selling book, 'A Plot To Kill'!" She yelled, twirling her quarter staff around and getting into a proper battle stance, "I'll show you for violating my privacy, bastard!"

The snarl Clive made seemed to be an agreement to the battle, flexing his clawed hands out and flicking his tail around wildly, he dove for her first, frenzied anger shifting him into an uncontrollable rage, eager to tear her limb from limb and splatter her young blood all over Dune Canyon's dusty soil. Bloodlust instilled itself in his heart once more, welcomed happily and absorbed into his demeanor, Clive's strength doubled and his speed tripled, throwing the chances of success well onto his side. Maya did not flinch as he approached her, the drifter's nerves of steel letting her look at death incarnate and not even batting an eyelid. Her grip on the quarter staff tightened, raised slightly, ready to attack…

__

STOP IT NOW! FREEZE!

Clive obeyed the order even before he knew where it came from, stumbling in his advance and diving to the side of Maya, narrowly missing being hit by the full brunt of her weapon and rolling to the side, skidding to a halt. Cursing the intrusion of his more human half, he didn't even see Maya as she approached him silently from behind, twirling her staff around nonchalantly in the air. Clive howled out a cry of pain as it was brought down on his back with all the strength Maya possessed, the woman smiling cruelly at the sound. Going perfectly still for a moment, the werewolf became limp after his howl had faded, lying placidly on his side. Curious of this, Maya walked around him and looked at his front, poking him lightly with her weapon.

He relied on a more human tactic this time, darting up and sweeping her legs out from under her with a well-placed kick, Maya hit the dirt audibly and the roles swiftly reversed, Clive now having the upper hand. Kneeling down and grabbing her by the throat, pinning her hands together with his free claw and casually knocking her staff away with his tail, he moved down and licked her again, knowing that he had won. Maya choked on the pressure he was placing on her windpipe, just enough to make it nearly impossible to breathe, but still allowing her to do so. Her blood ran cold as her special power faded, leaving her just in a flimsy nightgown and at the mercy of the monster who would claim his prize. She had lost, and now, she was most likely going to be raped and killed. "Fuck…" She whispered hoarsely, finally giving up.

Surprise overcame her as Clive pulled away suddenly, batting away sparks that caught on his exposed fur and burnt there, uttering a wounded; 'Yipe!' and moving away from her, frightened by the fire and smoke cloud that engulfed him from out of nowhere. Unsure of what to do, he jumped up to two feet and ran, leaving Maya behind. Freed from the lycan's clutches, Maya rubbed her sore neck that would undoubtedly be bruised in the morning and groaned, wondering what the hell was going on.

A pair of warm hands gently grasped both her shoulders and pulled her up into a sitting position, her head resting tiredly on a set of knees. The smoke began to subside, letting the darkness of night pierce through once more. She heard a voice. "Milady? Are you alright? You are not injured, are you?" Maya leaned back, comforted by the sound. Alfred appeared and fanned away most of the cloud, noticing that he had used a bit more smoke that what was needed. Seeing his older sister, he knelt down and looked worried, Shady hiding close behind him.

"Yeah… I'll be alright…" She moaned, pulling the hem of her shortened clothes down over her legs. "I'll be achin' in the morning, but I'm alright." After a few seconds on recuperation on Todd's lap, she carefully pushed herself up and stood, swaying slightly. Her wrists and neck hurt, but that was all, she would easily live. Rubbing her cheek and taking some deep breaths to get more air into her system, she looked sternly at everybody else, frowning. "Nice cavalry," She said sourly, "But you ought to put more work into your timing, it'll save me a whole lot 'o pain."

Alfred winced at her opinion, answering in his own overly timid voice. "Sorry Sis," He apologized, "I got out one of my smoke bombs as soon as possible, but none of us knew exactly what was going on anyway, it was too dark and we were all half-asleep." The boy shifted a little and Shady continued to cling to his leg, terrified of what Maya would do to him for falling asleep in the middle of his watchman duties. Alfred didn't mind the cat being stuck to him, as long as he wasn't using his claws, at least.

"S'okay." Maya replied, stretching. "I forgive ya, only because it wasn't your job to keep an eye out for intruders. Right, _Shady_?" She saw the orange furred creature hiding behind Alfred immediately, shivering like he was in the midst of sub-zero temperatures. Todd came back with his own blanket and draped it over Maya's shoulders so she could stay warm, the woman too focussed on their critter companion to notice the small act of courtesy. The swordsman yawned a little and slouched over, he was a person with inborn manners, but even _he_ needed a certain amount of sleep each night. Taking a step back and remaining quiet, he waited to see what would transpire next.

Shady exploded into a floodtide of apologies, huddling even closer to Alfred's leg and knowing for sure that he would be severely punished for what he did. "I'm really sorry! I meant to stay up and make sure that no-one would come, but the fire was _so_ warm and I had a little blanket to sleep on, and I only closed my eyes for a second and the next thing I knew there was screaming and things were happening and it was much later than it was supposed to be! I'm sorry!" He cried, fur standing on end.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Maya drawled, pulling Todd's blanket closer around her. "I've heard your excuses before, don't worry," She leaned forward, grinning, "I won't kill ya, just make it so you want to die. Shady, you're gonna be our night watchman for the next week or so, until you get the hang of it and it becomes second nature, you hear me?" Shady made a tragic sound of despair at her proclamation, letting go of Alfred's leg and falling flat on his back, mewling pitifully. It served him right.

Alfred sleepily rubbed his eyes, sighing. "Can we go back to sleep now?" He asked, "I'm tired, and it won't be morning for a long time yet." Maya nodded and patted him on the shoulder, acting strangely cheerful for someone who had been far too close to being raped and killed only a few minutes ago. She could recover fast from a shock like nobody else. Or could she?

As the two guys laid down on the makeshift beds to spend the rest of the night in gentle repose, hearing the weak cries of mourning from their feline companion as he made his sorry way back to his station, they were both startled by Maya as she plonked down between them, throwing her blanket over herself and the other two. She turned to Alfred, smiling a smile that hid apprehension. "You boys don't mind, do you? I mean-"

"I do not mind." Todd replied before she could finish, rolling over and closing his eyes. Alfred grunted and did the same, asleep within moments. Maya sighed as she looked up at the sky, accessible to her vision now that she was outdoors. Hopefully that wolf thing wouldn't come back, she shuddered, strangely anxious. It had been a long time since anything had ever unnerved her so.

Curling up so that the blanket went way over her head, Maya suppressed a peculiar emotion and wiped away some tears from a delayed reaction, feeling fear for the first time after a very long lapse. _Goddamn horny monsters..._ She whimpered to herself before finally drifting off to sleep.


	42. Wanderer

Stybba struggled and tried her very hardest to catch up to the much more powerful black stallion galloping many paces ahead of her, her white ears set back in determination and ignoring the extra weight of another person riding on her back. Virginia gripped her reins tightly and wished that Gallows and Mearas would slow just a little bit for them to catch up, the verdant turf beaten by a flurry of thundering hooves. She and Jet would have readily taken Arod instead of the docile white mare, had the bad-tempered horse decided to obey Jet for once. Faster and much more agile, it seemed like the better choice. However, after nearly being kicked twice, Jet got the message and left the grouchy animal alone.

Gallows finally noticed the increasing amount of space between himself and the other two drifters, prompting Mearas to lower his speed a tad and allow them to catch up. Slightly amused by the way Jet had his arms around Virginia's waist and leaning into her back, he remembered the warning Clive had given him the other day and decided to remain quiet over it, not wanting another assault by Jet's boomerang anytime soon. The darkness deepened as true night spread across the midland area of Filgaia, and they used the location of the stars to find north, using that information and heading south, moving off to their own destinations and journey.

"We'll split ways at the Fallen Sanctuary," Virginia advised to the others, watching the land around her rush by, "Gallows, you take the path to the Zenom mountains, and Jet and I will go southeast and see if Florina can lend us a hand. Try and be back at Baskar as soon as possible, everyone's counting on us, so don't ever give up." She watched Gallows nod and grin, picking up his pace and galloping ahead.

"You'd hafta give me a brainwashing and lock me up in a crate at the bottom of the sand ocean to stop me!" The big Baskar declared with enthusiasm, pounding a fist against his chest. "I'll be back with the Arnica, just you wait! But good luck with your search as well, you two."

They passed a smartly chiselled ledge of rocks that forced them to race swiftly around it, seeing in the very murky distance the outline of a huge crumbling temple nestled by the mountains, the intensely ancient Fallen Sanctuary, home of the powers that sustained the world. They had almost arrived. Jet felt awkward not being in control and letting a girl navigate his ride, but somehow glad of the fact that he could sit so close to Virginia without being slapped. Going a slight red, he felt like slapping himself, realizing that he was spending far too much time with Gallows and his perversions were beginning to rub off on his own brain. If Clive were here, he would have said that Jet was growing up. 

"Don't screw up, and we'll try the same, okay?" Jet said bluntly to Gallows, his violet eyes oddly standing out in the dark. Their horse's gallop slowly became a steady canter as the temple gradually came closer, the faint throb of the ark scepter alerting them to the holy presence of the Guardians. It seemed much more powerful than normal, but none of the drifters had the time to stop and ponder why. The Baskar priest dismounted outside the entrance and let his horse loose to graze on the moderately healthy grass, looking up at the remaining drifters still mounted and prepared to leave.

"See ya later." He said cheerfully, removing his tools and supplies from the saddlebag slung on Mearas's side, packing them into one large satchel and hoisting it onto his own broad back with a carefree grin. But, all that grin did was hide the uncertainty Gallows was feeling on the inside, not quite sure if he could complete his task or not. Virginia paused in her departure, looking at him with mixed feelings. Gallows sighed and pointed east, trying to bolster her spirits. "Go on, go. I'll be right, you'll see. I'll bring back an entire sack full of Arnica, just so I can see Granny's eyes pop outta her head!"

Virginia giggled. "All right, all right," She smiled, "I'm going. See you tomorrow, Gallows." And with that, she spurred Stybba to head east, the retreating form of the white mare easy to spot within the shadows. Gallows waited until he could see no more of them except for a small dot in the distance, before cracking his knuckles and making a quick prayer for continuing good luck, knowing that he was going to sorely need it.

Because Arnica was one of the rarest plants in the entire world.

xxx

With an unhappy whimper and sigh, Gallows discovered that the small beaten path he had no choice but to take seemed to be creeping upward into the mountain with an almost vertical tilt, making the back of his legs ache badly and scream out for a short break. Yet bravely, Gallows continued on with strength of mind and sheer willpower, whining all the way to himself like a baby. Every so often he stopped and checked the small plants surrounding the track in the hopes of locating the Arnica herb, but all he found were worthless weeds and the occasional outcropping of an antidote plant. It seemed to be a futile search.

Maybe it would have been easier if daylight was present to illuminate the mountainside, foraging in the dark made it difficult to even see _what_ he was looking for, let alone finding it. He should have brought a lit torch with him, it would've made things a lot less complicated. His mediums didn't posses the power of illumination so he relied on his average eyesight to aid him on his way, picking up a gnarled branch and using it as a walking stick to take some of the strain off his legs. How damn steep did they want this path anyway?

A rock rolled under his foot and he stumbled, leaning onto his walking stick for support. Somehow, he felt like an old man. Gallows looked up at the certain elevation he had to reach in order to find the best place for herbs, still many, many vertical yards up. The Zenom mountains were structured as a series of plateaus set upon a precipitous cliff-side, where it would be all too easy to slip and fall. This path was the _only_ way to climb the mountain, created over a century ago by the Baskar priesthood. Gallows felt like he was walking through his destiny just being in that place, it was that, or feel like his ancestors had built the road in just that way so they could laugh at him from their graves.

Conjuring up in his mind the image of the herb in question, Gallows thankfully knew exactly what it looked like from his classes in herb lore, one of the few things he actually bothered to pay attention to in his youth. It was leafy and coloured a dark green, similar to a holy root, but it's flowers were a beautiful midnight blue, sometimes speckled with white. It was a contrast to the current flowering plants in the area, and he guessed he could find it pretty quickly if he knew where to look. Of course, the darkness would hide the blue colouring, but maybe he could get lucky enough and spot one.

As soon as he had this thought, Gallows tripped over and landed flat on his face, walking stick sailing out of his grip. Swearing something particularly foul in the Baskar tongue, he pushed himself back up and checked his body over for injuries, his knees slightly scraped from the fall. What had tripped him over? The path was straight and without obstruction, but his foot had accidentally gotten hooked over something lying across the road…

That something screeched, and Gallows immediately felt very cold on the inside.

The inner coldness was accompanied by a torrent of water suddenly drenching him from head to toe, the Eel Volk that had previously been lying in contented sleep in the middle of the road waking up in a horrendous fury, firing a hydro launcher blast at the little human who had disturbed his slumber. Gallows, the bearer of the water rune, didn't feel any pain at all from the blast, but was shocked from the attack himself, turning around to see his new enemy. Shaking his hands and wringing the water out of his hair, he raised an eyebrow at the monster and almost laughed.

He could tell it was a water elemental from the very beginning, a bipedal lizard resembling a giant salamander, curious twin feelers extending from the front of it's head and a long stretch of membrane running down the entire back of it's body. It looked badly pissed off as it lowered it's front legs to the ground and made an almost feline hissing noise at him, showing needle-like teeth to the Baskar as a threat. Gallows wrung more water out of his clothes and casually held up his shotgun ARM, smirking. "I dun' have time for you. Get lost." 

He felt a twinge of doubt as the feelers on the Eel Volk's head began to twitch and wave about erratically, slight sparks dropping down and hitting the dried grass. It's skin was slick with moisture and Gallows felt the gross sliminess of it as the creature slammed straight into him, knocking him to the ground with the full bulk of it's body. Dirt and grass stuck to Gallows's side as he rolled a little bit down the steep hill, grabbing at a deeply rooted antidote plant to break the motion of the roll and steady himself, getting back up to his feet again. Coyote lay a small space away, resting at the foot of the water elemental and totally useless to Gallows now as a weapon, he would have to find a new way to attack. Being an adept Arcana user, he came up with one surprisingly fast.

"Magnarize!"

A small light sparkled in the darkness, feeding off Gallows's inherent strength and increasing in size and power at a spectacular rate, energy gaining solid mass and condensing into a tough substance, even stronger than diamonds. It hovered silently in the airspace above Gallows's head for a fleeting moment, the Baskar taking the time to aim properly and estimate the damage, before releasing the glowing shard of light straight at the beast, piercing it's side like a primitive arrow through the heart.

The Eel Volk screamed in blinding pain as the wound with a magically generated crystal embedded deeply into the flesh began to ooze reptilian blood, a disgusting green colour with flecks of torn-off skin floating in the mixture. However, the wound was not fatal and it was still in fighting condition, pushed over the edge by the stinging blow. Gallows overestimated the damage his spell had brought and made a break for his weapon, running closer to the monster and ignoring the steep rise of the mountainside and the burning in his legs. His hand swiped the ARM lying upon the ground with precision but did not count on being roughly grabbed by the creature, having one last trick up it's monster sleeves. It's feelers sparked one more time, and this could only suggest one thing. Electricity.

__

I'm drenched in water, and water conducts electricity… Oh shit… The Baskar realized at the very last minute, _Goddamn fucking **shit!**_

No less than fifty thousand volts of pure electricity were slammed straight through Gallows's nervous system, the scream the poor man made echoing easily through the night air and the mountainous region, he twitched like crazy and felt as if his brain would explode, screaming and screaming and wishing it would end. His agony was far too great for him to even hear the sudden shout behind him, or feel the monster pull away, just the torture that spread through him like liquid mercury, white hot fire.

A gunshot rang out in the night, somebody caught him in mid fall, and then there was darkness.

xxx

Gallows woke up to the sound of crackling wood nearby, and a moist cool washcloth folded neatly across his forehead to banish his slight fever, wondering where the hell he was. He felt grass under his fingers and the sting of an ant's bite somewhere near his left elbow, but he could not see the sky, it was hidden from his view by the washcloth that overlapped his eyes. The Baskar groaned, his nerves still frayed by the electric strike, and sat up, wringing the remaining moisture out of the fabric with his hands. It was still dark, in the midst of the night, so the young priest could only estimate that his repose had been short at the most. The land around him was segmented into platforms wedged into the cliff-side, coated in rare short clipped green grass, miniature plateaus upon the Zenom mountains. Somebody had carried him up to exactly where he wanted to go.

So, he was here. Gallows realised that a thin green blanket had been spread over his legs and he pushed it away, wondering where it had come from. The left side of his body was warmer than the right and he soon discovered the reason for that, a small campfire burning merrily only a few feet away. It was prodded rhythmically with a small and slightly bent iron poker, the hand that bore it pale in the flickering firelight. Gallows was not alone in the area. Mindful of his safety, he tried to jump up into a defensive stance, facing the stranger, but his injured nerves got tangled up in the process and he toppled over audibly, landing on his side, elbow digging into the grassy ground. Gallows groaned again, but for a totally different reason, embarrassed that he had royally screwed-up his proud image.

The Baskar started to hear laughter, and it was in a light tenor tone, masculine, but not unpleasant at all. It sounded jovial and affable, like the voice of a close friend. Gallows stared at the person sitting by the fire, trying to see through the shadows to the identity of the stranger sitting there. He was wearing a deep forest green jacket and a hat of a similar hue, two small feathers sticking out of the side. Blonde and smiling in a friendly way, it only took Gallows a few minutes to recognise who the man really was, breaking out into a grin. "Roykman!" The Baskar exclaimed while rubbing his ant-bitten elbow, "Good ta see you again!"

The item merchant imitated Gallows's grin in a more mild fashion, slowly removing his large brown backpack stuffed with his wares and setting it down nearby, patting it once to make sure it was sturdily seated and wouldn't fall over. Tufts of foraged herbs poked out of the top of the bag, fixed shut with a small metal buckle and smelling of a mixture of many different cures. It looked like the man must have spent the entire day in the mountains gathering herbs for sale, or something like that. Roykman poked the fire again softly and addressed Gallows with a voice that seemed much softer than his usual tone, calmer and meeker, barely above a hushed whisper. "It is good to see you too, Gallows." He replied, looking sullenly into the burning fire, "I expected to find you here, you know, but not lying unconscious and about to be eaten by a fiend. Don't worry, I scared it away."

"Huh?" Gallows grunted at the nearly cryptic remark, scratching his head and noticing that the static electricity from the monster attack had frizzed his hair out even more than ever. He looked like some tragic kind of poodle. Sighing and holding his hand out in front of his face, it shook slightly from the electric damage and was wobbly, it didn't look like he'd be shooting straight anytime soon. He at last caught the more important part of the merchant's statement and blinked sleepily, more than a little confused. "You _knew_ I'd be here? How?" He asked, perplexed.

Roykman shrugged for a reply, his words not really answering Gallows's question. "It doesn't matter _how_ I knew," He informed Gallows in his oddly disturbing soft voice, the paleness of his face making him look slightly pallid in the shadow, "What was important was that I could help you, and I did." He leant back and rested his warmed iron poker across his legs, folding his hands in his lap. A tiny bend in the black shaft marred it's forged image and Roykman held the length between his thumb and middle finger, as if it held some kind of significance for him. He spoke again. "I can still help you. That is the sole purpose why I am here." Patting his full supply bag again, he awaited Gallows's reaction with a neutral expression on his face.

Feeling much more stable than before, Gallows was able to understand Roykman's words a little better, even if he couldn't hear them very well. "I'm lookin' for a herb that grows here in the mountains. You seen it? It's called Arnica an'-" Gallows's sentence slowly came to a halt as he realized the one he was speaking to was no longer there, he had suddenly vanished the second the Baskar had taken his eyes off him. His confusion deepening for a few uncertain moments, Gallows nearly jumped as he felt a hand being placed on his shoulder, Roykman was now standing behind him even though Gallows had heard no steps being taken. It was incredibly unnerving.

The merchant's hand felt cold and clammy, with Gallows's slightly honed extra sensory perception given to him by his priesthood training, it only increased the feeling of foreboding he was picking up from the seemingly crestfallen man. Despite being outside, Gallows felt like he was sitting on the grave of a good friend. Roykman smiled again, nodding. "Yes I have," He said ambiguously, "It's the reason I came up here, besides helping you. You will need all the help you can get. There's barely any Arnica left in the mountains after the arrival of such a dry autumn season, but I found some, and you're more than welcome to it, Gallows." He moved forward and went past the fire to his bag of supplies, undoing the buckle and sifting around inside, searching through all his medicinal cures for the one that the Baskar needed, humming a sad tune that sounded altogether too much like a dirge.

"Thanks." He replied appreciatively to Roykman, shakily getting to his feet and this time not falling over. "You're a real lifesaver, man. Thanks." Gallows walked up to Roykman as he searched, curiously noting that the merchant had his eyes calmly shut as he did so, identifying the different herbs by touch and not sight. It _was_ dark and hard to see, but Gallows still thought of it as kind of curious.

He raised his hands instinctively as something dark green and leafy was casually thrown to him, damp from exposure to the dew-covered ground, and smelling like it had only been recently picked. The pale roots of the plant dangled limply between his fingers, picked just precisely so that the plant could still be transplanted if anybody ever wanted to. It dawned on Gallows that Roykman must know more about herb cultivation than the Baskar had originally given him credit for, thanking the Guardians for the unexpected source of help. Turning around and picking up the dampened washcloth he had discarded on the grassy ground, he folded the herb up inside, hoping that the moisture would prolong the short life span of the rare plant. He had to get this thing back to Halle right away.

Rubbing the back of his neck and looking a little embarrassed, Gallows admitted something painfully true. "Uh, I don't really have any money on me right now," He sweatdropped, "I kinda left my wallet back at Baskar, so I- um…"

"Don't worry about paying me," Roykman reassured him, his voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear, "I don't need money anymore, anyway." He stood up again and swung the heavy pack onto his pack, bending down slightly to brush the small traces of dirt off his knees. It looked like he was getting ready to leave, and as soon as Gallows thought this, the fire immediately went out. It didn't burn down to embers and exhaust itself, the wood just suddenly wasn't lit anymore, as if it had never been burning in the first place. Roykman straightened his green hat and worked the kinks out of his neck, shaking the tension out of his hands. "If you really want to repay me, use that item to it's utmost ability. Go and save your sick friend."

Gallows blinked. He didn't think he had mentioned Clive at all during his conversation with the merchant, so how did Roykman know about that? Dismissing the flustering thought as simple paranoia, he nodded, grinning. "Sure will! Thanks again for the help, buddy!" He gave Roykman a thumbs-up sign but became confused again as the man had disappeared for the second time, appearing sharply to the right of Gallows's vision, at the edge of the sheer cliff-side with his arms folded behind his head, looking up at the stars. He seemed close to them, but very far away, all at the same time.

"Actually," He began, Gallows having to strain his ears just to hear his voice that seemed to get softer after each word was spoken, "There is one last thing you can do for me, if you really want to." Roykman scuffed one foot on the grass, noticing how stiff and dried out the foliage was, it was somehow saddening. Turning back to Gallows, he looked more serious than the merchant had ever been before. "When you see your friend again, please deliver this message to him from me. Tell him that he shouldn't feel guilty and it wasn't his fault, if he continues to blame himself for the past, he will never atone and find repentance." The man brightened slightly, smiling. "Can you tell him that for me?"

"Erm… Okay. I will." Agreed Gallows after a second of thought, not really understanding the message himself. Knowing that he should get back to the Baskar Colony as soon has humanly possible, he straightened out his clothes, tried to smooth down his frizzed hair, and checked to see if he was still equipped with his favoured Coyote ARM, turning to leave. There was a slightly beaten path past the ledge he was standing on and it trailed down the mountainside to the flatlands below, Gallows estimated that he could summon his horse from there and head back to the village before sunrise if he hurried. It was a good plan, and he started to leave.

"You know," Roykman continued, for the first time in their conversation he actually rose the volume of his voice so Gallows could hear from a distance, though the merchant had gone back to looking at the stars. "I have always said that if anything should ever happen to me somewhere in this wide, wide world," He chuckled a bit before continuing, "That perhaps my soul will wander the wasteland, peddling my wares to those who need it, as a wandering ghost." The man shrugged, "I know it sounds romantic, but I've always liked the idea. Goodbye, my friend. Good luck to you and your comrades. Farewell."

Gallows heard something heavy hit the ground, and turned around to see what it was. Roykman's iron poker lay snugly in the grass, it's owner nowhere to be found, and the Baskar somehow sensed that he would never be found again. Gallows felt a shiver, pulling the edges of his small jacket around to cover his bare chest. The only person left in the mountains, he found himself all alone.


	43. Marking Time, Waiting For Death

Force of habit ordered him to wake up long before the sunrise, the few hours of sleep he got that night enough to sustain him throughout an entire day of drifting. Ravendor sat up and stretched, yawning softly and adjusting his vision to the still blackened night. He could hear the three bandits snoring nearby and decided not to wake them up just yet, he'd do that as soon as the sun rose. Fumbling around in the darkness, he searched their supplies and procured a full paraffin lantern, lighting it with his lighter, throwing shadows across the area and offering some small illumination. The brightness hurt his eyes for a few seconds before becoming used to it, setting the light upon a nearby rock.

"Another morning upon a dying world." He said to himself as he located a brush and got the tangles out of his hair, tying it back into a ponytail and standing up, looking around at the landscape make clear by the flickering light. It looked like it was going to be a fairly mild day today, by Filgaian standards. That was good, Ravendor hated warmth. Autumn was always his favourite season, the gentle decay that led to the death of all life. It was… somehow beautiful. He gathered his things together and packed early, skipping breakfast for the moment. There were some things he had to take care of before the others awoke.

After spending some time getting ready, Ravendor pulled his jacket back on and walked purposefully out of the campsite, up into the quarry, leaving the bandits and hostage behind. He held the lantern slightly raised with one hand and felt around the rocky outcrops with the other, searching. All by himself, the soft words he uttered were only for an invisible force to hear, talking peacefully in the night. "Darkness is my element, the vast cloak that shrouds the impure, or perhaps, hides that which cannot be known. You told me this years ago, and gave me the reins that guide the shadow to whichever stretch of eternity I wish to take. A curse, but at the same time, a blessing. So I must thank you, Melody, despite my own view on the subject."

Here he came to a great wall made by an immense boulder and overhanging cliff, casting a shadows so deep and thick that a dragon could have easily hidden there, dwarfing the small human that stood in it's shade. Not even the lamp he brought could pierce through the unlight, and Ravendor carefully drew a fold of his jacket over it to hide the brightness, pulling off one of his gloves with his teeth and sticking a bare hand into the shadow, concentrating.

Physics departed and magic took over as his hand made contact with the black shadow, rippling at the touch and becoming a strangely liquid form, abandoning it's gaseous state for the moment. It felt like velvet as he pushed his hand further in, stepping forward and biting his bottom lip. He began to feel dizzy again, but simply ignored it, focussing on keeping the shadow tangible. "Darkness be my heart. Darkness be my body. Darkness be my soul." He stepped through on those words, throwing caution to the wind and entering the unknown, vanishing from the area of the canyon. Logically speaking, Ravendor should have hit the stone wall a nanosecond later, but logic had no place in the presence of magic, and power. 

xxx

He emerged indoors in a cavernous place, stalactites dangling sinisterly overhead. The walls were a dirty dingy grey, made up of many volcanic rocks and layers, packed so tightly together that not even a golem could move them. Ravendor stepped out of a shadow and revealed his artificial light again, scanning the contents of the cave. The teleportation spell had worked, and he was exactly where he wished to be. Turning around and craning his head up, he smiled a pleasant smile and bowed to the presence of the cave, greeting an old friend. "I am pleased to see that you have not been tampered with," He said politely, setting his lantern down on the gritty ground, "It has been awhile, Diablo. Are you well?"

A mammoth object sat huddled in one great corner of the cavern, so tall that it's head could easily graze the ceiling if it were to stand up, scarlet armor covering a bulky metallic frame made from both machine parts and living tissue. A prototype variation before the manufacture of dragons, this hulking beast was none other than one of the legendary golems, forgotten to the edges of history. Like spilt blood, it's armor was coloured a vibrant red, indicating precisely who it was. Diablo, the Crimson Hellstorm. The bandit leader, unperturbed by the nearly overwhelming presence, casually walked up to it and set a hand on it's armor, channeling the spirit that handled his ARM into direct contact with the artificial intelligence inside.

"Do you remember me?" He pressed, "I said I would return, and I have. Awaken, my friend, and speak." A slight vibration ran through the golem, a tender electricity reawakening separate parts of the machine and bringing it to life, a resuscitation that was more than one thousand years overdue. Ravendor continued to speak, more for himself than the golem sitting in front of him. "I have traced my genealogical roots back to long ago, when you may have lived and fought in peace, Diablo. I had an ancestor who once bore the ability to talk to creatures such as you, and to this day, I have acquired that supernatural talent as well. In fact, you may have known her, though I am only speculating on this. Hear me now, wake!"

The golem groaned, a deep resounding noise that vibrated off every nook and cranny, the sound one of faint recognition. Ravendor had succeeded. The groan became a softer steady rumble, like distant thunder, the machine shifting into an active state. The drifter was beyond pleased, he had expected that it would've taken much more work to wake the creature up. However, Ravendor yawned again, still a little tired.

The drifter knelt down for a second, looking slightly unsure of his movements, before coiling his legs and jumping to an inhumanly possible height, landing with cat-like grace on the round armor plated shoulder of the golem, the metal as tough as nails. With the air of one who knew exactly what he was doing, Ravendor knelt down again and felt around on the armor, looking for a certain catch. His fingers hooked the contraption after a moment and removed a loose sheet of the plating, revealing the inner workings underneath. It looked severely complicated, with wiring and tubing going everywhere, but Ravendor knew exactly what to do. Like a doctor working contentedly on a patient, Ravendor found himself talking to the machine like a human being, finding it slightly ironic that the human conversation was merely a masquerade, for neither of them could claim that status for themselves.

"I could easily blame my problems on you, Diablo, although that would only be an immature way to look at things. I understand that you are innocent, despite certain others I know who would beg to differ. It has been so long… since I last came here. You must know, I do not like to trespass on my own personal crypt." He gently pulled some wiring out and rearranged their position on the entry ports, shutting down certain areas of power to make room for Diablo's life support system, more important than frivolous extras.

"You seem to be capable of making a full recovery, if I can supplement a large enough power source. I envy you, because I cannot do the same." He sighed, ending up in a brief cough. "The panakeia that runs through my bloodstream is both a life support system and a source of my magic, though in truth, it is also slowly killing me. My blood is degenerate, and not for one second of my day am I not aware of this, it is a constant burning pain, and it never goes away. The Council of Seven is scattered, so I can no longer acquire the devices used to purify my blood. The only thing that keeps me away from total degeneration is the medication I force myself to take, and sadly, I believe my body is growing tolerant to it's effects. If I cannot find another way to live, I will die soon."

Diablo made an almost sympathetic groan, unbelievingly listening to Ravendor's words and understanding them, memorizing the tone, pitch and writing it into it's personal data files, registering the quiet man as a friend. It had been so long since anybody had last talked to it, the golem was eager to have _anybody_ as a friend, no matter _who_ they may be. Something small sparked beneath Ravendor's hand and he noticed one wire had been partially eaten away by corrosion, causing him to think on how he could solve the problem.

Ravendor's face darkened a little in remembrance. "I never wanted to be this way, had I ever been given the choice. They should have left me to die when they found me, for that, I do not think I shall ever find a way to forgive them." In muted anger, he slammed a fist down on the thick armor, biting back a curse. "Gods damn you, Malik! Why could you not just let me die? You may writhe in the fires of purgatory now, but when I join you, I will show you the true definition of the word 'Hell'!"

He held the two ends of the corroded wiring together with both hands, trying to take his mind off his depressing thoughts. Nothing happened for a little while, then the faintest crackling of electricity formed around the wire, not a bright white colour like expected, but a deep dark shadowy red. The wires fused together from the sudden heat and power, entwining and becoming one. Ravendor let go, cautiously checking over everything else, the strange electrical field fading. He set the piece of armor back on and stood up, forcing a jovial smile. "You should be thankful that I am a scientist, Diablo. You may have slipped into irreversible disrepair had I not removed the energy fluctuation. All you need now is a new power source, I shall try and find one for you, once I have the spare time."

The sound Diablo made was unmistakably one of gratitude, the small drifter on it's shoulder effortlessly leaping off and landing on the solid ground once more, picking up his lantern that had been abandoned only a few minutes before. Ravendor looked back up at the golem and bowed once more, glad to be of service. "I shall return here very soon, bringing with me several companions. Do not be alarmed should you hear any disturbing noises within your resting place. In fact, I advise that you go back to sleep until I arrive."

Ravendor glanced back into the wide shadow under Diablo's long armored arm, the place where he had emerged from and would depart again, sure that he could expend just enough magic to send him back to the campsite without wasting too much energy. It was tiring, but it was worth it. Taking his leave of the cave, he walked away, taking advantage of the rampant shadows and shade. As a darkness elemental, it made him feel almost at home.

Then he heard a noise, the nearly untraceable sound of tiny rocks rolling under a foot or shoe, and a faint, oh so faint, breathing. He was not alone anymore. Without taking the risk of turning around, his hand silently crept to the holster of his gun, grasping and sliding it out without any sound being made. Expecting a fight, Ravendor made a sinister smirk, it had been _way_ too long since he had last fought, he only realized just then how badly he had been itching for one. Deeming himself ready for confrontation, he languidly spun around and met his foe, placing the lantern at his feet.

It stood on four legs, and each leg bore a cloven hoof, the creature essentially equine in structure, except that it's torso, arms and head were of a human quality, though horribly distorted. Ravendor couldn't really tell _what_ it was exactly, only aware that it's attitude towards him was hostile at the least. It's short fur was a deep dark blue that changed to a scaly skin tone as it reached past the horse part of it's body, eyes glowing a disturbing yellow. Muscular and fast, it would be a formidable opponent. It trotted forward a few steps, fists clenching and unclenching in anger. A creature that bore the name of centaur. Ravendor's face was neutral, refusing to budge from his spot. Standing in Diablo's shadow, it made the dark-haired man looked smaller and frailer than what he really was.

Ever calculating, he moved one hand up to his chin, seeing through the dark to appraise the monster with a careful deliberation borne only by a skilled scientist. The creature was tall and adapted to it's environment, although it did not look natural at all. Ravendor's eyes narrowed, the monster was man-made, and with a little bit of speculation on his own part, it probably used to be human as well. A travesty of human life, it looked like Ravendor was not the only one. Yet his did not give him comfort.

Stepping out of Diablo's great shadow, the bandit leader gripped his gun but did not raise it, having more than one singular trick hidden up his sleeve. If anything, he would at least give the creature the first chance to attack, knowing that he would win the fight no matter what. Ravendor smiled. "So," He intoned, his cultured voice echoing in the cavern, "The Council of Seven left more in this ruin than I could have fathomed, I had no idea they assigned a guardian to this place. Otherwise, I would have come much more prepared."

The creature whinnied in response, pawing at the ground with a hoof. It was remarkably camouflaged in the setting of the cavern, seeming to be specially adapted for combat in such a place. Ravendor just shook his head sadly, feeling pity for the unfortunate creature. Steadily, he held his weapon up to the beast, trained directly at his heart. "You are an experiment, just as I am. We may be kindred spirits, but still," With the flick of a thumb, he released the safety catch on his Peacemaker, his aim perfectly straight, "I understand you could have been human once, I do not deny that possibility, but for now you are my enemy, I ask you to stand down."

__

… Hypocrite.

His green eyes suddenly had a flash of uncertainly run through them, for an incredibly fleeting second, he could have sworn he had heard a voice inside his head, the voice unfamiliar yet memorable. He shook it off easily and went back to the confrontation, wondering how best to dispatch this fiend. The centaur stepped forward and leaned down, strong hands sweeping the ground, seeming to looks for a suitable weapon. Apart from rocks and dust, it would find none.

Ravendor's opinion on this quickly changed. The centaur briefly glimpsed a cluster of stalagmites huddled nearby and cantered towards them purposefully, reaching over and grabbing one, muscles straining and working to their utmost ability. It growled in energy expenditure as cracks began to appear around the stone's base, snapping free with an audible sound and coming loose. The monster grinned as it tested the weight of the stone club with a practice swing, the force it now wielded capable of knocking a human's head clear off their shoulders. It looked back up at Ravendor, flashed a set of yellowed and rotting teeth, and charged, swinging the club like a maniac.

But when it reached Ravendor, the man was no longer there.

Confused and startled, it turned around several times in search, whickering in a perplexed manner and scouring the shadows. It looked left and right, up and down, but found nothing. It did not, to it's eventual downfall, even think to check out the sleeping golem, where Ravendor was perched precariously like a bird of prey on it's head. He looked down and smiled cruelly, holstering his gun in lieu of a different weapon that he knew would be much more fun.

The bandit leader reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and removed a trinity of curious objects, almost invisible in the darkness except for the unearthly light it reflected from the simple lantern, shining a dazzling polished obsidian. Thin as a razor and shaped in a particularly oval form, they resembled a dark flight feather from an immense bird, yet they were made from an unknown metal, harder than the armor that Diablo bore. They were very beautiful, and very deadly throwing darts.

The centaur roared in agony as a flare of pain burst in the side of his neck, the ebony black throwing dart only millimeters away from severing it's jugular vein. Ravendor uttered an expletive under his breath, he had missed. The second and third assaults hit him in the shoulder and bicep, the monster hissing wildly and thrashing, wondering exactly where the pain was originating from. Not wanting to spend the _entire_ battle using distance attacks, Ravendor broke into a quick sprint and leapt off from Diablo's head, his jacket billowing out behind him as he calculated the contact point, awaiting the impact as he hit the ground.

He touched down and immediately rolled to the side, expecting the crushing blow the centaur made to the patch of ground that he had just occupied, moving away in time. It swung up and made a low blow, but Ravendor artfully ducked and sidestepped, knowing that the monster was far too slow to catch him. The drifter moved forward again and attempted a risky move, darting forward and _under_ the incredible bulk of the equine creature, just barely avoiding it's sharp beating hooves. He checked his pocket again and whipped out one last throwing star, wishing himself luck and jabbing it deeply into the centaur's underbelly, the monster's face twisting into a mask of absolutely agony, dropping it's club from slackened fingers and trembling.

It was time to finish the fight. Ravendor moved out of harm's way in the few seconds he had left of the creature being stunned, inhaling a breath and clambering aboard the monster as one would mount a horse, pressing the barrel of his Peacemaker to the back of it's head. In that one delicious moment of pure bloodlust, all sane thought left his mind. He grinned like a demon, and spoke. "If you had any humanity left inside, I would let you live."

He pulled the trigger.

The back of the centaur's brain case exploded in a mess of blood and bone fragments, streams of destroyed brains splattering onto the floor and seeping into the dirt, the monster's body wobbling from a lack of control before finally toppling over, headless and obliterated. Ravendor slipped off in time to avoid being bloodied, and looked at the corpse from the ground, his emerald eyes emotionless. The rest of his clip still full, he raised his arm once more and unloaded the rounds into the corpse, the sound of meat being pierced slightly musical to his ears.

"I… will… hate… you… forever…" He said stonily, firing a shot between each word, imagining that the creature's carcass was Clive's instead of something else. It would give him such great pleasure to murder the worthless bastard, it made him so look forward to slaughtering Kaitlyn…

__

… Do you really **want** to do that…?

"Silence!" He yelled to himself, turning away and picking up the lantern that had somehow not been overturned during the fight, walking back into the shadow. Killing Kaitlyn would be the consolation to everything he had suffered for under Clive's responsibility, no matter what _anyone_ said, he would complete his mission without regret. Nothing could ever stop him.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere but the energy drained from the fight, Ravendor screamed and fell to the ground, a horrible tearing and rending pain from the scars on his back making him nearly black out. He kept a tight hold on the waking world and stayed there, but overwhelming dizziness and the feeling of something shredding made Ravendor want to die, then and there. He grabbed at his throat and started to cough, knowing that he had strained his panakeia to the point of near disintegration. And something else was happening to him, something that he had entirely Malik to thank for. For the umpteenth time, he wished unspeakable curses down upon that man, curses so bad that they could not be repeated.

Tentatively, he removed the hand from his mouth and tasted blood on his tongue, not a very good sign for his health. The coughing stopped after a short while and he fell silent, dimly aware that he was bleeding from the scars on his back. Something foreign twitched and he doubled over in pain, coughing up more blood and panakeia. He hadn't hurt like this in nearly ten years. It brought back such terrible, _terrible_ memories.

For a time Ravendor just lay there, trying to regain his lost will to live.

It was a long while until he even _considered_ getting up again.

xxx

The world was still dark when he returned, emerging and separating his being that had bonded with the shadows, his feet set upon the firm ground of the campsite once more. Trailing tendrils of the thickened darkness clung to his immaculate clothing with creeping incorporeal fingers, pulling at the fabric and feebly trying to drag him back into the void, a hopeless gesture. Ravendor was still too securely rooted to his own dimension to subsist in another. He couldn't leave, not just yet. The man moved out of the teleporting shade and scanned the horizon, the barest glimpse of light in the distance existing as a thin coating of pale silver far away, as beautiful and as unattainable as the stars themselves. Still holding tenderly onto his wounded shoulder and quietly moving back to his own small niche in the area, Ravendor sat down on his blanket and dropped his white jacket to the side, the piercing sting that emerged from his shoulder blades nearly overwhelming.

Those cursed scars, they had opened again and offered him more pain from the remembrance of the past, hating the knowledge of where most of them had come from. Looking with muted misery at his arm, he could see the exceptionally watery quality of his own blood as it dripped down the limb and the side of his hand, beading upon the fingertips. His back felt damp and burning, yes, those scars had reopened once more, and no amount of medication or healing could ever cure him of that wound, it ran so incredibly deep that it virtually grazed his soul, setting a scar within a scar. Ravendor located his handkerchief and wiped all the blood away that he could reach, avoiding the wounds on his back for fear of only making it worse.

Despondently, he crinkled up the cloth in his hand and regarded the stain of his own blood with a calculating fascination, knowing just by the looks of it that things were much worse than they seemed. Ravendor was running out of panakeia, and it was slowly draining him of the ability to keep his identity as it stood. Everything in his life hurt, the things he had to do, the memories he had to remember, the people he had to hurt… It made his life a cursed existence, and all he wanted to do was end it. If only he could have ended it…

Ravendor sighed, having the desire for a cigarette but making no move to light one, looking at the bloodstains once more. It had been too long since it had last happened, which meant he was scheduled for another one soon, but he hoped it would not be _too_ soon. He was far too close to finally forging the vengeance that would honour him as his final dirge. As long as Clive could die, then he would be happy. It was _his_ fault that his pain could never end, it was_ he_ who mocked him by stealing one of the only women he had ever loved away, and in the ultimate punishment and torture to his already fatally hurt soul, it was _Clive_ who had made it possible for _them_ to…

__

"No… No, No! What is this?! What the hell have you done to me?!"

It had hurt, it had hurt far more than any other physical agony he had ever felt before, a rending and tearing pain that had started at the body and bled into the soul. It twitched, it ached, he could neither lie down nor go to sleep, knowing that the nightmares he'd experience would be far worse. His arm stung, his blood burned, and through all of that, he was forbidden to scream, to breathe, to even _hope _that it would end. Somewhere in Ravendor's mind, he was still experiencing that same traumatic procedure, over and over again for all eternity.

__

"Why… did you do this to me? There must have been… others…"

That time seemed so far away, but somehow, it could've only happened yesterday by the way he hurt, maybe even earlier. He had worked too hard, strained himself too much, Ravendor didn't think that a simple kidnapping mission would have drained his energy so. He looked over the camp to where Kaitlyn slept, easily spotting her in the darkness by her pretty golden hair, reminding him so much of Seraph that it only made his mental anguish worsen. Only one more day, and Ravendor would be forced to kill her. The bandit leader set one elbow on his knee and rested his chin in the palm of his hand, regarding her fondly and trying to ignore the pain. It was almost insane how she looked so much like two people at once, the Guardians must have enjoyed toying with his emotions in this way. Could he really… kill her?

The flare of pain worsened, and he grabbed at his shoulder again and grunted quietly, dampening the back of his shirt with all the blood he was leaking. Was this his subconsciousness trying to tell him no? Well, he didn't care. Slowly so as to avoid any unnecessary pain, he stuck his hand down the back of his shirt and lightly touched the open wound, feeling wet blood, the scarred flesh of his back… and _something_ else…

The man shivered, withdrawing his hand. It was slicked with blood and panakeia, symbolising his own life force draining away. But that was not what was disturbing him, a tiny object was plastered to the palm of his hand by the liquid, darkened by the rich red colour and useless. It was proof that his own current form was slipping back to it's original state, the state that the prophets had cursed him with. Ravendor peeled the tiny black feather off his hand and looked more closely at it, realising that his back was aching for an entirely different reason, and it was happening much too soon.

He wiped his hand off with the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket along with the small feather, hoping that the stronger variation of pain would be transient at best. He had to ignore it, for now, and concentrate on his job, for that held a much greater importance. Ravendor reached for his white jacket and put it on again, wincing when he accidentally put pressure on his injury. He would have to keep the piece of attire on so no-one could notice his wound, he wouldn't let anyone know he was in such pain, it went beyond his nature, to suffer in silence.

Ravendor carefully got up and staggered over to where Kaitlyn lay, forcing himself to stand up straight and look down upon her, cuddled up snugly in her blanket with his pet sleeping tranquilly by her side. He crouched down and gently peeled back the blanket so that her bound hands were exposed, wound together by a rough thin length of rope. Her wrists were slightly affected with rope burn, and he found himself feeling a little guilty because of it.

Ravendor slowly untied the knot that held her captive, working with utmost silence so that everyone sleeping in the area was left undisturbed. The rope came away quietly and he looped it back into a small circle and set it to the side, knowing that he would still need it for tomorrow. Kaitlyn shifted a little and made a small noise in her sleep, assuming a more comfortable position now that her hands were free. Ravendor smiled and sat down next to her, waiting for the sun to rise. He remembered, Seraph had loved the sunrises more than anything…

A few tiny rays pierced the sky as night was incarnated into day, the inky shadows mixing fluidly with the vibrant light. The clouds were still there, and they bore the quality of both aspects, darkened by the night, but coated in a magnificent reflective silver lining, the two contrasting shades co-existing with each other in beauty. For the first few minutes of morning, both day and night were one.

Kaitlyn awoke, her eyes opening up just a slit, deep breathing shifting to a lighter state. For a moment, she forgot where she was, slightly confused, but felt the body of the warm sleeping bird by her side and remembered, a flash of homesickness enveloping her mind. Too tired to pretend to be brave, all she wanted to do was to go home. The girl didn't want to be here anymore, finally understanding that this act of kidnapping was becoming much more serious than she had originally guessed. Still refusing to move too much, she opened her eyes fully and noticed that Ravendor was sitting next to her, looking up at the virgin sky. She thought he looked exceptionally sad, like something very precious to him had just died. 

"Mother, Seraph, Catherine…" He said, voice barely above a whisper, but his green eyes as hard and emotionless as a piece of jade, "Even… Clive…" The bandit leader clenched one fist, feeling both hate and regret at the same time. If things had only been different, maybe Seraph could have lived. He _should_ have tried to find a way to cure her, not just stand by her side as she died. It made him feel like it was all his fault, which made him deserving of all the loss he had felt. Maybe he deserved to be this way, maybe he deserved to be alone.

"… Everyone… in the end, everyone leaves me…"


	44. Nightmare

The windows in the Caradine household were small and rather thin, built in the traditional Baskar manner to allow light in and nothing else, so trespassers couldn't have the indecency to sneak in uninvited at night. A small spear of light pierced through the window and entered the room, lit only by the burning fire crackling downstairs. It was another day, one step closer to the possible demise of both Kaitlyn _and_ Clive, as the day was born, Catherine reflected on this with desolation. The poor woman had gotten hardly any sleep during the night, only even attempting to go to bed after Shane had urged her to. He had told her that she would need sleep for the important day ahead of her. Though Catherine tried her best to take Shane's advice, her consciousness just couldn't bear to leave when she so worried herself like this.

She was sitting up on the bed she had borrowed from Halle and Shane, legs crossed underneath her with her back leaning against the wall, eyes closed and trying to sleep. Held in her arms and leaning against her cheek and shoulder was her husband's Gungnir ARM, the cold metal of it's composition nearly as frosty as Clive's arms had been when he left her, now just a bitterly sweet memory. She would probably never see him again in a human form. Catherine's hand went to the green clip stuck to the side of her sniper rifle, where the silver ammunition lay in anxious wait to be used. It no longer bothered her to tears that she may be forced to use it, if only luck could provide them with the cure that Shane and Gallows spoke of. She hoped to the gods that the others would bring back the ingredients they needed, otherwise…

Catherine leaned slightly to one side, hugging the weapon closer to her body. All she could do was pray that Jet, Virginia and Gallows would arrive soon, so she could add her contribution and actually _do_ something, not just be dragged around like dead weight. She knew she should be ashamed for having such a selfish thought right where selflessness was required, but Catherine was feeling incredibly left-out by everyone else, when all she wished to do was help. Unnoticed tears leaked down her face and trickled along the side of the rifle, wanting to finally get some more sleep so she would not have to think about this for at least a little while.

That request was denied.

"Mrs Winslett?" First faint footsteps up the stone staircase, then the mildly cheerful face of the Baskar pillar, up bright and early with the dawn. He looked more than moderately happy as he approached, not dampened at all by Catherine's sullen mood. "Oh, you're already awake." Shane had come to offer her a pleasant wake-up call, though as it turned out, she really didn't need one. Opening her tired eyes to the world again, Catherine gave up the notion of sleep and smiled at him, the rifle sliding horizontally into her lap. It was nice to see a reassuring face sometimes.

"Did you come to wake me up, Shane?" She smiled, quickly wiping the automatic tears away so they could not be seen. Her legs felt stiff and numb from a lack of movement, and when she shifted them she received a slightly cold feeling down the nerves that spoke of an oncoming pins-and-needles attack. Her hand unconsciously touched the metallic weapon in her lap, wishing that she had set it somewhere else. From nowhere, she conceived a disquieting thought. "Wait a second. Shane, did you get any sleep? You look tired…"

The youth rubbed at his eyes for a moment, the automatic suggestion of sleep triggering the drowsiness that he had intentionally tried to keep locked away in the back of his mind. In truth, he hadn't gotten any more sleep than Catherine had. "I have been up all night trying to ready the alchemical equipment with Grandmother. It's very complicated, and I seem to have forgotten to sleep." She shrugged, the matter seeming of little importance. "How was your sleep?" He asked innocently, stretching.

Catherine looked down at her hands, tightly grasping Gungnir's side. "I had a nightmare." She sighed, her slightly shaking fingers pressing down on the cold unyielding metal, in tumultuous remembrance. "It frightened me badly, so I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night." She hated to sound so babyish and easily scared, but the dream had _really_ shaken her to the core, enough to question whether or not the others would be coming back with salvation. Her dream, it had almost been prophetic, and if that was so, well, Catherine just didn't want to think about what would happen.

Comfortingly, Shane lightly moved to one of the vacant beds located nearby, and sat down, more than glad that he could rest for a little while. His grandmother had made him run around like a headless chicken organizing a horde of complex tools for hours on end, Shane was grateful for the relaxation. In fact, he could almost fall asleep on command, right now. Yet he didn't, wanting to console the troubled woman that had become one of his newest friends. The Baskar youth leaned against the wall and smiled, letting out a breath. "I used to be a dream seer," He informed her knowingly, "Why don't you tell me about your dream? Who knows, it might make you feel better." Shane paused, then added an extra input. "I could even try and interpret it, if you like."

She surprised him by looking surprised herself. "Oh, no! You really don't have to, I was merely thinking aloud. I don't want to be any trouble, your family is already being more than gracious to even let me stay here, I don't want to intrude." Catherine held out her hands in negation and looked a little embarrassed, showing him an anxious smile. She didn't want to burden her troubles on somebody who wasn't even involved too deeply with her problems, the thought was practically abhorrent to her.

Shane shook his head, ignoring her worried look. "It's no trouble, I would love to help you if I can. And the house," He indicated the surrounding area with the gesture of a hand, "Anybody can stay here, we Baskars are not a very material people, the concept of avarice and inequality is shunned in our culture, where the lowest neophyte has the same human rights as our chief elder. Anyone is welcome, as long as they show honour to those who rightly deserve it." The youth blinked, then blushed slightly. "But I digress. Sorry if I went off on a tangent there, Mrs Winslett."

"You can call me Catherine, Shane." She replied, a small weight being lifted off her chest in knowing that she was not burdening anyone as much as she thought. "My daughter _does_ call your brother 'Uncle', and so that should consequentially make us good friends, I believe." Shane blinked owlishly at this thought, most likely trying to establish the connection between his 'Brother', and the word, 'Uncle'. It didn't look like it made much sense to him, but he smiled and nodded anyway.

"In that case," Shane drawled, gathering the notion into his sleep-deprived mind, "As good friends, I should think that it would be my duty to help make you feel better, which can easily happen if you share your dream with me. You don't have to worry, I won't laugh or anything, dream interpretation is my specialty…" The pillar shuffled into a more comfortable position, taking a pillow and setting it behind his back and he leaned into the wall again, the cushion soft and accommodating.

Unconsciously so that she didn't even realise she was doing it, Catherine drew Clive's rifle ARM back up into the way it was reclining before, the long sleek barrel pressed against her cheek. She sighed once more, hands absently fidgeting with the weapons extendable bolt, flicking it in and out in a repetitive manner. The gun was still loaded, so this was more than a little dangerous. Catherine barely even noticed. "All right," She breathed, the recollection of the dream a bitter taste in her mind, "I will tell, but please do not-"

"Of course I won't." Shane answered, beating her to the punch before her sentence could end. After a few moment, bird song quietly erupted from outside, the night finally throwing in the towel and yielding to the brand new day. Everything seemed to be less dark and dreary in the formation of a newborn daytime, even to a person who hadn't taken the time to sleep. Things were always judged differently following such a unique reincarnation, one that would happen indefinitely until the end of time. Inspired by this, Shane waited patiently for her to begin.

Catherine's words were deeply fraught with hesitation and unsure emotion, like speaking the words aloud would somehow make the horrifyingly true. "I dreamed that I was underground, where darkness was everywhere, enough to envelope me, and anybody else." She took in a breath before continuing, her fingers now playing with the ARM's holding strap, toying with the material as a slight amusement. "There I stood with my back against the wall, in an unidentifiable light, basking the central area with a strange pale illumination. I remained along it's edge for fear of being seen and included in the fight that was transpiring right in front of my eyes. I wanted so badly to intervene, but I just couldn't, something strange held me back."

"I see." Said Shane, thinking deeply on the intrinsic symbolism she was throwing up into his mind. It was not abstract visualisation at all, as he had originally had expected, but a dream with purpose and structure, oddly divinatory in it's substance. It gave him an unnerving feeling on the inside, his knowledgeable jade-coloured eyes apparently busy in elaborate analysis. "Continue. I'm listening."

"I saw two animals fighting tooth-and-claw in the light," She persisted, her hands now carefully winding the Gungnir's holding strap around one hand, head bowed and eyes closed in recollection, "There was an immense black raven and an ash-grey wolf, they looked just like the statues you showed me yesterday, but in flesh and blood, not lifeless stone. They were nearly insane in the way they tried to injure each other, it made me sick to my stomach, because I didn't want to see either of them hurt. I felt frozen, helpless. It was _so_ awful, but I just couldn't do anything… Nothing…"

The woman paused for a long while, the time rolling by as she worked up the courage to continue with her story. "I was forced to watch every blow of the fight, but I could easily see who was going to be the victor. The raven was simply too small and too fast to be hit by the wolf, and the poor creature was dying from the wounds that had been inflicted upon it. I saw it fall to the floor and I thought my heart would explode in my chest. I knew, it was _dying_." Catherine loosened the strap around her hand and watched it unravel, her eyes unreadable. "The raven flew away and I did not see it again, but my limbs became unstuck and I ran to it-" She froze, then corrected herself, "…_Him,_ the wolf, to see if he was alright. He was covered in his own blood and whimpering, I don't think I had ever been so worried or upset in a dream before. But then again, it didn't really _feel_ like a dream at all. It felt like a terrible reality."

The Baskar said nothing.

"With as much care as I could, I picked him up and set him in my lap, though he was hardly breathing anymore. I thought, I _knew_ he was going to die. His face was the only part of his body that was not hurt, so I wiped the blood away and hugged him. And then… and then… he licked my cheek and looked up at me," Catherine suppressed a sob and bit the side of her index finger, "And I saw, he had _blue_ eyes. I knew after that… who it was…" Pressing both hands to her face, she started to cry. "I'm sorry, I can't go on."

Shane mentally kicked himself. Getting up from his seat, he leaned over Catherine's bed and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, regretting ever having opened his mouth in the first place. "No, I should be sorry. I shouldn't have pried into your personal dreams, please don't cry, Catherine." Not removing her hands, the woman shook her head, the tension in her fingers loosening so she could see through their gaps. It only felt worse in recollection, and here she was being selfish again, occupying Shane's attention when he probably had more important things to do. 

Startling them both, the Baskar and drifter suddenly heard three loud bangs on the front door to the house, closed tight to keep all the warm air in during the relatively chilly morning. Hardly any more than a second later, it was followed by a solid 'thump!', like something large had just fallen against the door. Shane's first impulse was to go and check it out, but then he turned to the woman, who wiped her face and pushed him gently towards the door, recovering from her grief for the present moment.

Catherine got up and left the gun lying on the bed as she followed him, just a few steps behind. She could convince herself over and over again that it was 'Only a dream', but still some hidden part of her mind kept telling her to accept fate now and give up while she still could. Without a moment's hesitation, Catherine ignored it, knowing that the notion was simply _wrong_. She stood patiently behind Shane as he took hold of a small piece of cord that acted as the doorknob and pulled, the door swinging back open into the house, a smear of blood stretched across it's surface.

A horse was tethered outside to a small pole left for that purpose, the black stallion steaming quietly and sweating off all the energy he had burnt. Mearas nibbled quietly on a few blades of short grass and demanded nothing more, remaining quiet. His saddlebags were particularly empty and some weight had been discarded, the owner of the horse having removed them. The Baskar and the woman stared at the animal, striving to find words in the early morning sunshine. 

Gallows fell into the building, flat on his face and critically exhausted.

He barely heard the gasp of surprise and concern for his health, or the hand that was placed on his neck to check for a pulse. Gallows knew, he was still alive. He had to be, he wanted to be. It was finally his time to prove that he was not as dumb or as undependable as his Granny thought, that idea made him smile. Gradually, he stretched one arm out on the stone floor and pushed a small bundle over to Shane's feet, bound tightly with a small piece of bandage. His nerves still felt like there was electricity running through them, and the random encounters he had fought in such a condition on the way back had taken it's toll. Gallows felt like shit, but still, he grinned. "Arnica…" He rasped, voice uneven, "There… It's all there… Ain't I just… damn fantastic…?"

On those words, he fainted.


	45. The Last Morning

Stybba was only moving at a tired trot when Jet finally prompted her to slow down and rest, the pure white hair on the animal damp with sweat that glistened in the morning air. The two drifters had been forced to alternate between rider and passenger throughout the night several times, so either one could receive an equal amount of sleep and still continue. Virginia was resting gently against his back and hugging his middle to keep herself from falling off. She was sleeping, and Jet was trying his best to fight back the hot flush burning on his face whenever he drew his personal attention to that thought. The silver-haired android blinked his eyes sleepily and yawned, feeling the horse canter to a gentle halt. 

He carefully dismounted so Virginia wouldn't be disturbed, leading the mare to a small patch of dampened ground, barely passing as a waterhole. All the water was nearly dried up, and the only things that remained were a murky liquid and cracked mud. Yet, in this area and season, it was a blessing upon the planet. Stybba thankfully lowered her nose into the pool, drinking up all the water she could reach. She deserved the refreshment after such a strenuous sprint across the countryside, Virginia could be proud of her.

Jet was slumping where he stood, tired from all the strain navigation had taken out of him. In the distance, he could see the great ravine that they had visited the other day, where all their problems had started. It was ironic to go back there so soon, to find a cure instead of a cause. Virginia stirred and awoke, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. The first thing she did was look at Jet, silently asking why they had stopped.

The boy gently patted the horse's side. "Nearly there," He explained, his violet eyes dulled by a lack of sleep, "Just a little bit more. I thought we may as well break here because the horse wasn't lookin' too good." Virginia nodded a little and yawned, glancing over the horizon.

"Just a little bit more…" She repeated, slowly becoming awake.

xxx

Not too long after the sunrise, three ambient shots were fired into the air, the sound loud, piercing and stirring. It certainly stirred up the group of bandits who were awake the second after they had heard the noise, their reactions priceless to the little girl already awake and watching the area, a still-sleeping bird in her lap. The crack of the bullet leaving it's canister made them all practically jump into the air, tangled up in their own blankets and shocked into wild conclusions in the small frame of time between sleep and the unknown. If the sky had a ceiling, then Dario probably would have hit it with ease, wondering who the hell was being shot at.

Antonio, having spent the night sleeping sitting up, tumbled forward and into the warm ashes of the exhausted campfire, getting ashes and soot all over his dark brown clothing. Cursing in Spanish, he scrabbled away and dusted himself off, stepping back and then tripping over Romero who had rolled over several times and gotten tangled up in his own blanket, trying to squirm out of it. Kaitlyn began to giggle, as a team of murderous bandits, they certainly were hilarious, but not good morning people. Ravendor had similar thoughts as he lowered his ARM and looked them over, sweatdropping. He had kind of expected more… order than this.

His face reached a neutral expression as all three bandits shook off the noise after a couple of seconds, lying back on the ground and pulling blankets and any reachable soft material over their heads. Antonio was practically attempting to snooze in the dead fire, not caring about how dirty he got. Romero rolled himself back up into his cloth cocoon and ignored the world, his older brother Dario cramming his hat over his face to block out the newly-risen sun. Knowing that this would not be the last time in the day he would have to do this, Ravendor lightly scratched the side of his chin and pondered how to resuscitate his lazy-ass minions. 

Before anyone else had a chance to think, Ravendor suddenly had the metal can he used to cook dinner and a wooden spoon, glancing back at Kaitlyn and smirking. She could easily guess what he was about to do, obligingly putting her hands over her ears. Kestorael still hadn't woken up yet, it looked like it would take more than just gunfire to awaken the wind sprite, making little birdie snores in the midst of oblivion. Ravendor took in a deep breath, and Kaitlyn braced herself, glad that she had managed to get up early.

"RISE AND SHINE!" The bandit leader bellowed at the top of his lungs while banging the can as loud as he could with the spoon, the noise blaring and impossible to ignore. _Nobody_ could possibly sleep through that, including all the deaf and dumb people of the world. Ravendor circumnavigated the perimeter of the campsite while yelling and making an ungodly amount of noise, causing his little hostage to burst into a fit of laughter as Kestorael just about exploded into full alertness, startled and mimicking the bandits in a bizarre way.

"Come on, now! It is the most spectacular morning! You cannot just spend it asleep! Wake up time!" His refined voice echoed easily in the crisp clean air, the ambient banging noise quite unable to cover it up. When Ravendor wanted to be heard, he was _always_ heard. A defeated Romero popped his head out of his cocoon and groaned, his blonde hair messed up horribly and stuck out in all the wrong places. Antonio and Dario gave in and got up, the day still too early for their liking. No _sane_ person would wake up so early, they thought, although they kept this opinion to themselves.

Ravendor dumped the cooking instruments in Romero's lap and turned away, looking over the horizon and smiling. Nearby, Kaitlyn appeared thoughtful. It was a little weird and confusing for her to see Ravendor so curiously cheerful and positive after he had seemed so depressed when the sun had come up, but now that it was over, he seemed to be much happier. Her inexperienced mind having trouble grasping the concept, Kaitlyn suddenly had another thought, one that she didn't think to be nice at all. What if Ravendor was only _pretending_ to be happy when he really wasn't? Her father used to do it all the time whenever he and her mother talked about her grandfather, so the concept was not unfamiliar at all. It was just more than a little strange to see another man who was so similar to her father doing the same thing. 

Kaitlyn had, though she wasn't one hundred percent sure, managed to hit the nail right on the head with her observation. Ravendor was anything _but_ happy, he just felt that he couldn't show it to anyone, not just yet. Nobody had noticed that he was leaning forward slightly from his hidden wound, and he hoped to keep it that way, drawing all attention away from it by acting content. He only had a little while to go, just a little bit more…

"Bo-oss!" Romero whined, squirming out of his blanket and standing up straight, leaning to one side from sleep deprivation. "Can't we just… have a bit more time, huh? I mean, geez, even _Janus_ didn't make us get up this early!" His complaints stopped when Ravendor made no reply to his words, not even turning around to face him. "Boss?" It was a little creepy to realise, but Romero could have sworn that the temperature of the campsite had dropped by at least five degrees in sync with his leader's silence, where you could suddenly hear a pin drop. The bandit leader's mood had immediately inverted so fast, it was frightening.

Their hostage felt that she had to cut in before it was too late, letting go of Kestorael and watching him flutter into the sky. Dario lumbered by and she stopped him, grabbing hesitantly at his sleeve. "Um, I kinda need to go to the bathroom…" She admitted, rising from her temporary bed and looking imploringly at the bearded man. He put down the bag of supplies he had been carrying and glanced at Ravendor for advice, even though the only presence he could pick up from him at the moment was a sharp and icy one.

His voice mimicked that presence, refined and quiet, but bearing all the metaphorical qualities of a poisoned icicle. This was not directed straight at Dario, even though Ravendor answered the silent question, but at the world in general. "Dario," Ravendor lilted frostily, accurately describing the bandits position and frame of mind, "Do not just stand there like a brainless fool, escort the young lady to the facilities like a good gentleman. Antonio, I wish for you to scout the surrounding area for a few minutes, and you, Romero," The venom in his voice was honed to a razor sharp blade, "Stay here. I would like to _speak _with you."

Antonio shot a worried glance at his younger brother, the way Ravendor had said _'speak_', he made it sound like a long stay in the infernal region would be a thousand times more preferable. He gave Romero a brief smile before obeying the orders, not wanting to be the focus of Ravendor's disapproval for very long. The foreign bandit had worked with the dark-haired man a few times before in his career, and had more experience to know when to avoid things like this. The small man was smart enough to know exactly when to make himself scarce. In the true way of the ninja, without anybody watching him leave, Antonio was gone.

Dario took a hint. After the newest bandit had left under Ravendor's direction, he gingerly guided the little girl away from the camp, shooting a glance back at the only two people who were left behind. Romero looked like a child well aware that he was going to be scolded by a teacher, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly and rubbing his scarred eye. Unusually, he shivered. Why was it so damn cold all of a sudden?

Ravendor still did not move. "Romero Gigio, age twenty four. You were born and abandoned in Little Twister, occupying the eastern section of the town alongside children of a similar nationality until you left to pursue a… more rewarding career. Your three, or should I say, two older brothers do not have any genetic relationship to you, do they?" The blonde bandit blanched, hardly expecting his boss to recite anything like _that. _"Well, am I correct?"

"Y-yeah…" Romero stuttered, unnerved. "You are."

Moving calmly and nearly without conscious thought, Ravendor tipped a cigarette out of his diminishing packet and lit it with a lighter that had somehow found it's way into his hand and then disappeared back into his jacket pocket just as readily. The temperature was imitating his mood, as it sometimes did when his mind became far too focussed. He breathed out smoke and saw that his own clear breath had form in the air, the temperature low enough to create a bit of fog. When he spoke, the voice was so commanding and icy that it could barely be described. "Whom do you serve?" He asked, making Romero flinch from the deadly tone.

__

Serve? Is this guy for real? 

Romero stepped back, nearly walking into the burnt-out fire. A slight wind blew ash across his shoes as he scuffed away, his large green bandanna hiding most of the uncertain look he was showing to the world. Only a few seconds ago his boss had been pretty damn cheerful, not even old Janus had been _that_ moody. Romero knew he should say something and say it fast, but absolutely _nothing_ sprung to mind. A few seconds passed, and Ravendor spoke again, with much more incentive in his voice. "_Whom do you serve?_"

The effect was similar to being stabbed in the back by a piece of ice, and Romero audibly yelped before answering, steam from the cold air and his breath gathering around his face. "You!" He shrilled, arms rigid by his sides, "Not Janus, right? That's what you're pissed off about, right? W-we're on the same team now, so no pain for anyone, right?" It would only be a few seconds before he proved himself wrong.

He emitted a strangled yelp as his feet were suddenly dangling a short way above the ground, a pale yet strong hand clamped around his neck and leaving him hanging there, gasping for breath. Ravendor's eyes were barely even focussed and gazing at an invisible object somewhere in front of him, as if he glanced at something _inward_ instead of outward. When he spoke, he had lost the icy edge, now he only spoke softly and simply, like somebody explaining things to a dumb child. Romero struggled for a few seconds, then just decided to go limp. "So, that is it?" He asked, hiding emotion.

"Wh-aaat…?" Came the stifled reply.

He continued. "So soon do you abandon such close ties to your leader, after so long? You are eager to be led again, and you easily expect me to assume that role. I will do so gladly, yet it causes me to wonder…" The grip tightened, "Exactly how long a memory can last, when held by a group of _scumbags_ like you. Do you not seek revenge for your fallen comrade, or is his memory less than the gella I pay?" Ravendor smiled cruelly, amused by an interesting thought. "I suppose, such is life, but be warned. When you die, you will die as a bandit, which means no-one will ever remember you, and you shall fade from thought, memory, and history. It is the ultimate death."

Ravendor let go, the ninja tumbling back down to the ground. Romero coughed a bit and rubbed his neck, feeling his boss's eyes drilling into him and shuddering. Snuffing out his cigarette before Kaitlyn came back, he stepped on the remains and hauled the blonde man to his feet, whispering something foul into his ear. "I am not a very violent man, if left unprovoked. Continue to work hard without complaint and I shall proceed to act this way. I want no disruptions from anyone, do you understand?" Romero nodded, and the other man smiled, the temperature of the area rising moderately. "Good. We have an agreement, then."

And Kaitlyn came skipping back, Dario trailing close behind her. Ravendor turned to them and made an announcement, all previous discontent leaving his face. "Breakfast first, and then we will leave soon. It will only be a short walk until we are there." Kestorael landed on the side of his arm, and Ravendor sat down on a moderately small rock, knowing that he was easily going to skip his own breakfast. He hardly ever ate anything, anyway. With his unique body, he really did not need it. At the very most, he could subsist on light, water and air particles enough to sustain his body, but it did sometimes feel nice to eat a decent meal, it was like a reminder that he was still partially human.

He watched the others set up the tools for breakfast, staying seated and quietly listening to Dario and Romero argue about having bacon or eggs for breakfast. Kaitlyn butted in and suggested that they all have both, and so the argument was dissolved before anything got too complicated. Soon, the scent of frying bacon wafted around the campsite, attracting both the ground and aerial scout back for a meal. Kestorael hopped around eagerly and cawed, while Antonio arrived with no noise, jumping down from off an overhanging rock. He moved so quietly, that not even Ravendor sensed his added presence.

His visibly flinched as Antonio placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, yet the only traceable glimmer of pain flickering across his face hidden behind his eyes, disappearing as soon as it had came. The ninja quickly pulled his hand away and timidly shoved it in his pocket, alarmed. He might have been wrong, but the small man could have sworn that something unknown had _moved _underneath the coat at his back, in reflex to the touch. Looking back at his face, Antonio was surprised to see the bandit leader wipe away a trace of blood from his mouth, caused by the unexpected pressure. Was he hurt?

"You okay, Boss?" He asked him anxiously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There hadn't been any fights he had missed, had they? The ninja had reckoned that he had done a pretty good job as a watchman last night, even if he _did_ end up falling asleep. And even so, somebody would have scolded him, or at least _mentioned _it by now. Antonio took a very deep breath, for a dead pig, bacon really did smell nice.

The dark-haired man nodded slightly. "I am perfectly fine," He lied, "Go and eat something, I insist upon it." Antonio gave him a very odd look and skulked off to the meal, where Dario was being attacked by a hungry raven and getting his breakfast stolen. Romero, still shaken by the recent 'talk', was only picking at his food, shooting worried glances everywhere.

Quietly, Ravendor coughed up a little more blood after he was left alone, a hand on his hurt shoulder. The ninja's touch had been like fire, he had barely been able to keep his response to a minimum. This was unlike ten years ago, with the weakening of his medicine's effects, the change was happening far too fast and was becoming too noticeable. He would have to speed up his plan.

He was running out of time.


	46. Refrain Of Memory

It was a beautiful autumn day. The water that flowed underneath the bridge lapped calmly upon the ancient fortification, the murky shapes of agile fish slipping through the silky waves. The ocean was not far off from where he stood, and he could just barely smell the hint of salt in the air, the outer ocean of Filgaia the definition of breathtaking. It had been more than difficult to get here upon a limited teleportation range, especially after the loss of power from the Photosphere, Demon Lab and the Gate Generator. It was his own personal effort and energy expenditure that brought him here, to await his final mission, at the foot of the great tower, Ka Dingel.

It was here that Boomerang awaited his destiny, one hand upon the Saber Fang nestled snugly in the leather sheath at his back. The three humans, they would be arriving at any minute, he had seen the Gull Wing touch down on the surrounding island less than half an hour ago, which meant that they were certainly close. He did not doubt that they would back away after such great trials and exertion, it went beyond a human's ability to achieve the impossible.

Boomerang meditated on that thought as he stood at perfect attention outside the entrance to the tower, his helmet under one arm so he could feel the soft ocean air across his dark-skinned face, ruby eyes gently closed to the sensation. In many ways, Filgaia was so different to Terra by it's continual state of natural calm, when nobody else was around to disturb him, the metal demon could strangely be at peace. It was so _different_ to the marvelous calm and gratification he experienced after a deadly fight, it felt more… _pure_, somehow… _wholesome_.

He could not help but wonder if _this_ was the ultimate happiness that others spoke of, when he was just outside doing whatever he wanted, it felt like all was right in the world, and that Zeikfried and Mother were millions of miles away. Momentarily, he removed his hand from the edge of his weapon and rubbed the side of his face, where a small scratch marred it's dark perfection. He had sparred a little beforehand with Luceid, and ashamedly, lost. Well, those fights were not very serious, and they loosened him up for the crucial skirmishes. That did not mean he still didn't get hurt, though. It was a very minor wound, and he ignored it with ease, gazing out into the nearby water.

Luceid was beside him in her intangible spirit form, remaining unseen until her aid would be needed. Boomerang felt unnecessarily safe and protected when she was around, and tolerated it only because she was a good ally, and because he somehow loved her. As far as demons went, Boomerang knew all about the concept of love and attraction, the concept crucial to a mammalian species based upon an ancient demon design, the neo-sapiens. But, he had never really pondered the mental dependency of love until he spotted a vaguely human Luceid staring at him after a particularly gruesome kill, drawn to him by his intense, and almost insane desire to fight. It had been awkward and reasonably alarming for both of them, but after that, the two had become inseparable partners. Even now, she was still with him, and that in itself made Boomerang happy. 

But with happiness also comes guilt. "You should not have come, Luceid." He said darkly to the air around the tower, fully aware that she could hear every word. "There will be a fierce battle here before long, and I do not wish to see you hurt. Allow me to take care of the humans myself, and you may watch. It is a more reliable strategy for your safety." As soon as he had said these words, he felt himself a fool for caring so much, demons weren't supposed to care about anyone except for themselves. Why the hell was he so different?

She answered with a seemingly carefree laugh, a beautiful sound that was far too musical to be a human's voice. **_"Not a chance, Boomerang. I promised that I would come to your aid when called, and that I would love you across the stretch to eternity and beyond. I will stand with you and fight."_** Her voice became more solemn, **_"I will die with you, holding no regrets."_** However, even after hearing this, Boomerang's expression did not change in the least. It was one of the many things she loved about him, it would take more than the end of the world to shock him out of his silence.

The one word he spoke was enough to make her incredibly happy, whispered quietly under his breath. "Likewise." He murmured, setting his helmet back into place after hearing a dull stomping sound in the distance steadily coming closer, and seeing the hulking form of the Earth Golem slowly reaching the land. The humans were on their way. "But…" He continued, wondering why he was still talking, "This is your last chance. Please go."

Luceid seemed curious. **_"I am desire, I cannot die. Yet, you wish for me not to be hurt, how sweet…"_ **Boomerang grunted at the declaration of him being defined as 'sweet', unsure if he should take it as a compliment or an insult. Coming from Luceid, he decided on the former, making no reply to it in order to save his dignity. Zed would have laughed his ass off if he had heard Luceid say it out loud like that.

Three people were approaching, and under his helmet, Boomerang narrowed his fiery red eyes. "You have chosen, then." He announced with finality, before his voice softened a little, "If I die here, and the humans succeed in their mission to liberate Filgaia, please do me a favour and turn my identity into a fond memory. Will you do that… for me?" He knew it would probably be the soppiest thing he would ever say, and vehemently wished that they would not be his last words. In his mind, he saw Luceid smile.

**__**

"I promise." She said, materializing herself into a tangible form, a great blue-grey wolf. Eyes full of hope, courage and determination, the three humans approached, walking up the cobbled bridge to the dimensional tower. The eldest one was tall and poorly groomed, dressed in faded travelling gear with a small animal upon his shoulder, but he radiated an air of a tumultuous past, too chaotic for proper understanding. He looked conflicted too, like a poisoned shadow still lingered in his mind. Boomerang already knew who that shadow belonged to, it was Alhazad's.

There was a girl also, young in her years with short blonde hair and colourful clothes, the metal demon recognized her as a competent fighter and magician, the heir to the throne of Adlehyde. Her eyes were set hard with firmness of mind as she glared at him with absolute hate and malice, knowing Boomerang to be a cancer upon the planet. Her wand was gripped tightly in her hand as a faint aura of magic surrounded it, oddly beautiful.

The last was a young boy, but the only thing that came from him was silence, navy blue hair held back by a red bandanna flicking in the breeze. In that absence of feeling or sound, it conveyed a tired knowledge of the cruelties of the world, experienced first-hand from a human who was barely out of his boyhood. But it was well known by now, that this boy was anything _but_ human. It was a copy, a travesty and a mockery. As the child looked up at him with ruby red eyes so similar to Boomerang's own, nothing could haunt the demon so much in his lifetime.

Aware of Zeikfried's orders, he knew it was time. 

Boomerang stepped forward, and the oldest human drew his sword as a reflex, the blade long and deadly. He ignored this easily, making sure he was set and ready. "I knew if I waited here, you would eventually come." He sneered, feeling Luceid's soft blue fur brush against his leg as she moved up closer to him, offering her support. "Zeikfried is after the _New Moon_, called _Malduke_. This is the dimensional elevator, _Ka Dingel_, which leads to the space colony." This was the part he didn't care about, all that planning crap that he didn't really like, though he thought the humans should know about it anyway. All he wanted to do was start the fight, and that desire would spur him to win.

The sword-bearing human looked confused, glancing to his rodent companion for a second in puzzlement. "Why are you telling us this? What do you want?" He asked, lowering his blade a few inches and appraising every inch of Boomerang's demeanor. It was almost condescending, and he was used to getting that feeling enough from the mouse than from some arrogant demon.

Boomerang's hand moved as fast as lightning, whipping his Saber Fang from out of it's sheath in the space of a nanosecond, making all three humans flinch. He saw no harm in explaining more, finding the recital as boring as hell. "Malduke is a colony that existed one thousand years ago that has the capability to attack Filgaia. It is easy to guess what Zeikfried plans to do with it once he acquires it." His voice developed a nasty edge, hinting of suppressed bloodlust. The blue-haired boy noted this and carefully pulled his feminine companion back a bit, standing in front of her. It was almost cute. 

**__**

"Oh, look, Boomerang." Luceid pointed out casually in her telepathic voice, **_"I think they are in love!"_**

He honestly didn't give a damn, though he was careful enough not to mention this to her. Instead, he continued, holding his weapon out in front of him. "Now that you know, I'm sure you plan to head to Malduke." Distress flickered across the young boy's eyes for a moment, naively thinking that Boomerang was unaware of this. The demon tapped his chest plate conceitedly, smirking. "But there will be many people who will get in your way, including me!" He stepped forward again, prompting the others to back up a bit. "You can't go ahead unless you defeat me. Come, human warriors! Only battle will quench my thirsty heart! I thirst for the fight!" Shooting a glance at Luceid beside him, he sent her one last mental message before the battle.

__

Are you **sure** you wish to-

She nudged her head against his leg, attempting to push him forward. **_"Don't think, fight! Tap into your desire and win!" _**His smirk became a more sincere smile and he nodded, focussing his thoughts and his mind into battle mode, tensing like a drawn bowstring and allowing a moment for the humans to prepare. They looked uncertain, but ready.

He lunged for them.

Shifting into a melee stance first, Boomerang adapted himself to close-range combat and used his weapon like a short bladed sword, ducking down and slashing diagonally to rupture the stomach of one of the humans, the move powerful enough to disembowel a vulnerable opponent. His boomerang struck metal instead of flesh, however, and he looked up to see that the swordsman had parried the blow with his own long sword, the muscles in his arms straining from the pressure. The two weapons locking, sparks few as the orihalcum boomerang and the steel sword clashed, strength pitted against strength.

Luceid's fur crackled with purple electricity as she dove for the spellcasting woman, fangs bared and claws sliding out of her usually dainty paws. The magician's wand flew out of her hand as she hit the ground with the wolf on top of her, gasping as all the wind was knocked out of her lungs. Luceid let loose with a tortuous electrical burst, the high magical resistance of the woman the only thing that kept her from fainting then and there. Seeing this, the young boy made a mad dash for the magician's body and threw the wolf off with the flat of his blade, helping her to her feet.

Boomerang had no time to intervene, for he was being kept busy by the swordsman's strength, a lot more powerful than he had originally anticipated. They had fought before, yes, but the human had never displayed such a domineering power before, like some kind of chain binding him had fallen away to unleash that power. A kind of… absolute power. The demon looked over the human's shoulder and noted a curious thing, the tattered ribbon the human had always worn was gone, and a force told him that whoever stood before him was now a _changed_ man.

He withdrew his Saber Fang and struck the human in the side with a well-placed roundhouse kick, grabbing his wrist and trying to perform an _ippon seoi nage_, a simple weight shifting shoulder throw using only one arm, easily succeeding because of his greater metallic mass. The swordsman gasped from the sudden shift of direction and was thrown clear over Boomerang's shoulder, losing his sword in the process. It clattered several feet away and out of his reach, the human grabbing at his bruised shoulder in pain.

In an uncalculated move, Boomerang tensed as he heard Luceid's lupine cry of pain from behind him, foolishly whirling around to see what was wrong. The young boy was holding the smoking barrel of an ARM and dragging the unconscious woman away from the desire Guardian's wrath, the wolf in question lying feebly on her side, blood pouring out of a bullet wound to the midsection. Whimpering softly, her tongue lolled tiredly out of her mouth and she slowly became still, purple electricity fading.

He felt something unknown swell up in his consciousness as he looked at that scene, both of his hands clenching viciously. It was like anger, he understood anger very well, but it was also something _else_, wild, insane, it was driving him mad, seeing her lying injured like that. She should have listened to him, she should kept out of his affairs, she should have-

"LUCEID!" He shouted, disregarding the swordsman and running to her side, planting one hand softly upon her wounded flesh. The wolf looked up weakly and licked his bloodied hand that he moved up to her face, irony clearly showing up on her wolfish features. She could dimly see the bruised swordsman coming up behind him, weapon raised and ready…

She dropped her head to the ground. **_"In the end, love toys with us all."_** And then her body died.

The blade was merely steel, and it battled with Boomerang's body for entry, but the sharpness easily pierced the flesh and the metal demon cried out in alarm, a spattering of dark black blood dripping down his midsection. His hands moved to that spot, and were greeted by a length of blade poking out of his stomach, cleanly stabbed straight through. The swordsman cursed as he set a foot to Boomerang's back and pushed, drawing his blade out again, stained with oily blood. Fatal only to individuals of the human persuasion, Boomerang only felt an excruciating agony and he staggered to his feet, holding a hand over the clean cut wound. He spoke, and a trail of blood dripped from his mouth, knowing which side had won. 

"This is… I have no regrets…"

Luceid's body faded from reality, knowing that the Guardian was not dead, but merely back into her state of intangibility. An idiot, that was what he was, a god damned idiot for freaking out in such a heated battle, over such a _stupid_ matter. He knew she couldn't die, so why did he _care_ so much if she was hurt? Somehow, despite all sane thought, Boomerang found himself not regretting the move he had made, it somehow satisfied him. Limping away from the humans and facing them once more, he hid a grimace and coughed, blood trickling down his armour. 

"I have witnessed that the potential of human beings is endless… Go… Go through here to defeat Zeikfried…" He closed his eyes. Yes, this was right, this made him feel good inside. He was doing the right thing. Truthfully, he would rather let the humans have Filgaia than Zeikfried or Mother, anyway. They were noble and honorable creatures, from what he had learnt. "I like this… A power used to protect something precious…" If only he had received a chance to study them more, to know what drove them to fight, and to win. "Someday, I…"

__

Someday I hope to understand you humans more. Someday I wish to be able to find and protect what is precious, to discover this 'hope' that you cherish so much… And I-

It was upon them before anybody knew it was there, a flock of mortifyingly ugly gargoyle-like creatures, ratty wings beating fast over the ocean water and creating a small series of waves. They gibbered like monkey's, but bore the skin tone and shrill pitch of a band of half-breed demon drones. Boomerang slumped a little from the injury, he could take these guys on with no sweat at any other time, but not right now. He didn't like the looks of this at all.

An overwhelming telepathic voice invaded them all, the three humans glancing around sharply for it's source. Boomerang knew who it was in an instant, loathing that voice with a passion. Not only was it Zeikfried's voice, but it was Mother's as well. _"You have overstepped your bounds one too many times. Boom! We are finished with you. You will die with the humans! Right here, right now!"_

The metal demon pushed through the small group of humans gently, startling both the spellcaster woman and the boy. Ignoring his injury, he pointed to the tower's entrance, where a small trail of his own blood was congealing. "Go humans! I'll take it from here!" He declared, drawing out his Saber Fang again and preparing for another battle.

"Boomerang!" The swordsman looked horrified, amazed that the demon was still eager to fight after he had shoved his sword straight through his stomach. The demon merely waved one hand airily, as if it were a trivial matter. He pointed once more.

"There's a transport device on the top of Ka Dingel. I am letting you guys go." There was a chorus of verbalized surprise and he turned back to them, removing his metallic helmet to show them his real face. Boomerang rubbed his little scratch and smirked arrogantly, shaking his head to reassure them that he was not on their side. "I am not saving you…" That seemed to calm them down somewhat, now it was time to say goodbye. For humans, they were good opponents, deserving of honor. "Remember, I am the one who hunts the perfect prey! Until that day, my friends… Go now! Hurry!"

The swordsman had to drag the magician into the tower, her eyes lingering to Boomerang's who snorted and waved them in, wishing that they would pick up their damn pace. He couldn't remain standing up for much longer. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see the artificial youth looking up at him, his silence conveying exactly what he felt, which was a singular thought. _Good Luck._ Nodding, the boy tore himself away and followed the others, leaving Boomerang behind.

He was glad that they were gone, as he spat out a mouthful of his own blood, he sized up his enemies. This would be tough, if nigh impossible, to beat in his weakened state. But shit, he was more than willing to try. Standing up straight, he brandished his weapon and laughed. "I will never stop unless I lose my desire to fight… Come Luceid, Guardian of desire!" She was there in a flash, unharmed and primed to fight. Looking at his injury, she whined sadly but stood at the offensive, ready. Boomerang had never felt so grateful to her in his life. "Luceid…" He whispered gently, "We're going to take a little trip to Hell together." She looked at him strangely, the tranquility in which he announced that was simply astounding. Reaching down, he patted her once on the head and sighed, knowing what he had to do. "I shall return to hunt the perfect prey. If the humans turn hope into power, then I can turn desire into a blade…"

He shot his next question directly at her, asking the Guardian for the ultimate sacrifice. _Desire, Luceid! Give me your desire, give me your heart! If you love me, stay with me, die with me! The sword, Dark Guardian Blade!_ _It is time for the birth of the blade of legend!_

Immediately, she stood next to him in her human form, arms hanging calmly by her sides. Though she could talk vocally, she used her mind instead. **_"My heart is yours to keep, my body is yours to use. I belong to you, Boomerang, and you belong to me. We are one, and desire shall take form. Do what you will, I am waiting."_ **Luceid spaced her arms out and leaned back, feeling Boomerang wrap one arm around her back, with the other moving to touch the flat of her stomach. She bit her lip, and braced herself from the pain.

Flesh and blood parted as he dug his hand savagely into her stomach, the tissue tearing and melting away at the touch, blood and strips of flesh hanging down the wound and staining her grey robe a dark red. Boomerang hated the sensation as he felt Luceid hold back sobs of pain and shiver, his hand grasping the handle of something embedded deeply in her body. This was it, ending her agony, he gathered his fleeing strength and pulled, hearing the meaty sound of metal parting from flesh.

Luceid's eyes glazed over and her body went limp as the sword was withdrawn, first the hilt, composed of a pure, yet indestructible gold, with a functional lather grip and pronged pommel, with the long and heavy blade coming last, a gleaming frosty blue, like a carved icicle. This was Boomerang's sword, the Dark Guardian Blade, Luceid's sacrifice, compressed into a weapon. Like the nature of desire, it was dark beauty.

The weapon finally came loose and Luceid sighed, slumping lifelessly into Boomerang's arms. He closed his eyes as a few tears were let loose, knowing what would happen next. "I love you. I promise…" He suppressed a sob, "I'll be back."

Luceid faded, and Boomerang never saw her again.

Saber Fang fell to the ground, abandoned. He would not need such a weapon where _he_ was going, all he needed now was the sword. Glaring up at the monsters that would trigger his own final demise, he held the weapon to the ready. Even _with_ this sword, he knew he was going to die. He _deserved_ to die, after all he had done. He just wished, for a fleeting second, that he could have found out what it was like to be human. They seemed so happy sometimes… All Boomerang wanted was to be happy…

"I will not forget you!" He roared as he charged into the fray, swinging the weapon for the first time, "I will not, I will not! Even if I die, I will find you!" He blinked back tears, "Luceid! _I promise!_"

Moments later, Hell welcomed another demon into it's punishing embrace.

xxx

__

…But I did forget her…

I left her behind…

All alone…

I **loved** her… and I let her go…

…While I became someone else…

And found another soul to love…

… I… broke her heart, I broke my promise…

That is my sin.

xxx

The sun burned brightly into his peacefully closed eyes and irritated him, causing the sleeping man to groan softly and roll over, away from the sun's harmful rays. Morning had just ended and the true portion of the day had begun, the overpowering Filgaian sun attempting to reach it's crest in the sky. Clive felt the warmth and dismissed it easily as the warmth of a blanket or something else covering him, his mind far away from the reality of today, in a temporary amnesia. In fact, he was expecting Catherine to wake him up at any minute now and tell him that breakfast was almost ready.

He waited, but that announcement never came. Slowly, he opened his eyes and found out that his hands were blocking the sunlight out of them, and also noted how hard the ground felt underneath his body. Some people would say that sleeping on the floor is good for a man's back, but it was Clive's personal opinion that they were horrible shameless liars. He felt like someone had beaten him with a stick or something similarly painful, and all his joints were stiff and sore. Coughing a bit, he rolled over again and got a nasty little shock.

Clive had been resting near the edge of a very small cliff for most of the night, and when he rolled over one more time, he ran out of solid rock and tumbled nearly five feet to the ground, landing on his hurt back. A tiny pebble made the same motion seconds after and bounced off his head, giving Clive a little extra wake up call. Groaning and pulling himself up into a sitting arrangement, he clutched his head with a bare hand and shook it slightly, trying to rattle out all the memories of the night before that had been blocked out of his recollection.

"Wh-what did I _do _last night?" He rasped quietly, rubbing his left temple and averting his eyes from the bright sunshine. Then, he almost smiled. It had been a long time since he had ever wondered about anything like _that_. But this was no simple matter, the memories of his situation rushed back to him, he had more crucial things to worry about. Clive checked himself over for bloodstains, not smelling or sensing any of the liquid, but being doubly careful just in case. His coat and his body was not freshly stained, and he breathed out a deep sigh, relieved.

He lay back gently and looked at the sky, clear and bright blue. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his glasses and put them on again, glad that he hadn't foolishly lost them. His hand lingered over his face, going over the features and checking to see if he was still the same as yesterday. Everything seemed accounted for, eyes, ears and nose, they all were human and remained that way, lastly he checked his hands, the nails weak and definitely human. He couldn't see any extra fur, apart from the small amount hidden under his coat. Relaxing from the departure of uncertainty, Clive shakily got to his feet and stretched, glad that he was still more or less in a human shape.

He took a few steps forward, and then trod on something in his way, biting back a shrill yelp.

Suddenly weak in the knees and everywhere else, Clive toppled forward and braced for an impact with the ground with his hands, absorbing nearly all of the impact and falling to his knees, totally numb. Gasping a little and feeling a terrible stinging sensation shoot straight up his spine, he clenched his hands in the dirt and waited for the pain to go away, more than a little frightened because he knew it was far too early to slip into another transformation again. He shuddered as he felt that something was lightly bruised, and silently remarked on how deadened his nerves felt, like being drugged down with a powerful muscular sedative. However, little by little, he could sense the life come back to each part of his body, the feeling returning to his limbs. Clive felt better, but wondered what had caused the reaction in the first place. He found out only seconds later.

Something soft and particularly furry lightly touched the side of his hand, aching a little from a small bruise that marred the tip of it's length. It curled around his wrist and stayed there, stinging slightly from the pain. Turning his head, Clive looked at it with fascination, all of the colour draining from his face, making him appear even paler and sicker than what he already was. He had not expected anything like this at all, it was mortifying. 

The transformation he had suffered through during the night had decided to leave a lingering imprint of it's influence over Clive in a physical way, for as the man had returned back to a more or less human silhouette, one other thing had stayed behind and proved to the world that he was nothing more than a hated monster. It made Clive sick. Pressing a hand to the side of his face, he trembled, and his tail did so with him, incredibly afraid.

"Who am I?" He rasped to himself through his shakes, "This is… this cannot be who I am. I feel as though I am becoming someone else, _something_ else, and that I will cease to remain Clive Winslett before long." In fearful anger, he grabbed at the length of his tail and squeezed it, regretting the motion instantly as even more pain flooded through his system. How in the world could he delude himself into believing he was human _now_? Losing his driving will to continue, Clive intentionally lost his balance and fell face-first onto the ground, a tearless sob escaping his dry throat. "Tell me. Who?

__

Do you require an answer, dearest? You are the one who hunts the perfect prey…

"…I cannot do this anymore," He whimpered sadly, closing his ice-blue eyes, "I cannot take it anymore. Stop it, please…" He exhaled a stale breath into the dirt, blowing up a small dust cloud with the motion. Clive thought it would just be better for him to lay down and die, allowing his body to return to the ancient soil. He didn't really want to continue, anyway. In death, nothing could hurt him ever again…

__

Daddy!

Clive's eyes blinked open and he pushed himself up without conscious thought, startled out of an intense depression by a hauntingly recognizable voice. The voice of his daughter, somewhere in his own head. The drifter dusted himself off with a sudden calm and looked around inquisitively, shocked by how he had managed to forget all about the reason he was there in the first place. Kaitlyn, she was more important than himself, or Ravendor, or any of their puny little problems, Kaitlyn was his ultimate priority, and he couldn't seek death until she was safe, no matter how warped his body or mind became. "Kaitlyn…" He said quietly, somehow smiling in a cloud of mental darkness.

__

I kept my promises, Daddy. Now you have to keep yours…

"I will…" He breathed, gaining a better grasp on himself, "I promise I will save you…" Sitting back on his knees again, he breathed deeply and tried to gather his bearings, scattered from a night of Guardians knows what. The dregs of sleep still clinging to him, Clive stretched his arms back and yawned, hearing his back making a loud cracking noise as the tension was loosened from it. Absently, Clive wondered when he would ever be able to sleep in a _real_ bed again, the idea appearing farfetched to his mind at the moment. Thinking back to himself in his ordinary life, it almost seemed to be an illustration of a person he had never met before, a stranger. Yet, this did not bother him much, he had more important things to worry about at the moment.

The metal demon looked down to the newest addition to his body, the long bushy tail clinging tentatively to the side of his leg now that he had moved his arm, his subconscious's attempt to keep it out of sight and mind. It was coloured a dark smoky grey that tinged on the border of a bland blue, keeping that colour all the way down the length until it came to the very end, where the tip changed to a pure snowy white. It resembled a wolf or fox's tail somewhat, but on a much larger scale. Clive took in all this information and shuddered, feeling like a filthy breed of animal. After a minute of striving to get over this sensation, he tried to move it, gritting his teeth when he felt that the nerves were still newborn and bruised.

The first few movements were uncoordinated and floppy, the limb jerking around ungracefully in the dust. Clive bit his lip and willed it to move left, where, of course, it naturally decided to go right. The attempt would have been easier had he not accidentally hurt himself, but after a few seconds of getting used to the feeling, his mind unconsciously adjusted itself and he climbed wearily to his feet again, trying his best not to trip over this time. The tail seemed to have a nasty habit of flicking out in front of him whenever he tried to move forward.

__

How in the world shall I be able to hide **this**? He pondered, watching his tail swish around automatically on the rocky floor, _I can hide a bit of fur, or sharper teeth, but this…_

Clive trailed off, coming up with absolutely no conclusion to his internal query. He reckoned it didn't really matter _what_ he looked like after a small moment of thought, because nobody else was around to see him, let along make any assumptions for themselves. Still, it made Clive feel very self-conscious and caused him to keep it tucked behind his legs and coat, as concealed as it could be.

Holding a hand above his eyes to block out the piercing sunlight, he calculated the distance he had travelled from the size of the mountains looming near the horizon, larger and more distinctive than he remembered from the day before. Generally, he guessed that he had gone roughly four or five miles in one night, too slow for his liking, but it was reassuring enough to know that he had at least _tried_ to keep on moving, even in his lycan form. He had to reach those mountains before the day was out, that was the ultimate deadline.

Climbing down the layered cliff face with an added amount of care, Clive found himself talking to nobody again, and hating himself for it with a passion. "I do not care what happens to myself or my body, but I…" He paused for a few seconds as he jumped from one ledge to another, wobbling a bit but staying secure. With an extra limb to balance himself out, it made things unnecessarily complicated. "I will _torture_ you when we meet, Ravendor! I swear it, I swear to the Guardian Lords that you will die screaming! I don't know how, but I _will_ punish you…"

He reached the bottom of the cliff-side after a bit of climbing and struggling, and then crouched to the ground again, closing his eyes and inhaling. He needed to focus. The air blew across his face and gave him intricate information, deciphered only by his acute sense of smell. He was closer now because he had continued to move even after sundown, whereas the bandit trail had stagnated during the night, indicating that they had set up camp somewhere close by. It would only be a few more miles, Clive estimated from the wind speed, and then he smiled. He was getting better at this.

__

But, wait. He paused, opening his eyes, _What… is that I sense?_

Standing out on the dull dusty ground, a scrap of yellow fabric was caught under a moderately-sized rock, the scent emanating from it a touch of deja-vu upon his mind. Yellow, something about the colour yellow made him recall… _something_ about last night. He remembered being upset over something, and then going into somewhere, where he was hurt and was forced to run away, but not before he had… well… Clive just couldn't remember that part too clearly. But there were two words he could recall, and they made him feel cold and sick on the inside.

"I didn't… no, I could not have… Did I?"

Maya Schrodinger. 


	47. Remains, A Fragile Corpse

After the great dividing ravine that hindered many travellers who weren't on horseback had passed, Jet lightened Stybba's load graciously and walked beside the mare as they moved, relieving her of his extra weight. He carefully held the reins with his guard-gloved hand and shoved the other one in his pocket, watching the dew-slicked grass underneath his feel evaporate it's moisture as the temperature increased. Virginia was quietly nodding in the saddle, and every so often the silver-haired boy would quickly flick his gaze to her and then sharply look away, hating himself for being so abashed as he was.

He had wisely decided to go _around_ the forest between the crevasse and his destination, not wanting to wander through the area that he had only recently camped at before. Who knew, maybe Clive's and that wolf's blood still stained the ground there? He didn't want to find out. Jet guided Stybba and Virginia around the woods, the path was longer but clearer, and after a lot of walking through an expectant silence, he turned a corner and saw the quaint little roof of Florina's cottage just around the bend.

The trees were dropping their leaves and the clearing was bathed in the faded hue of autumn, a million different shades of brown, orange and red. Jet scuffed his feet through the carpet of dead foliage and led the other two with him, small spade-shaped leaves settling in his hair. The android held back a yawn, deprived of most of his night's sleep.

__

Damn it, Clive! You'd better be fucking grateful for this!

He didn't see any flowers out the front, the fragile blossoms seeming to have died during the change of season. It was a small shame, after having tried so tenaciously to cling to life for such a long time, they had finally given up. Something crumbled underneath his shoes and Jet paused and lifted one to see what was wrong, his stoic face expressionless. One of the withered flowers was stuck to the bottom of his shoe, clearly dead. Jet honestly hoped that it wasn't the flower he was supposed to be looking for, or else he was screwed.

Scuffing it off, Jet went around to the side of the horse and shook Virginia awake with added care, the girl making several attempts to bat him away with a misguided hand. "Yo! Hey, brat… wake up!" Jet shook her more vigorously, and this time he got her to open her eyes, the drifter leader tiredly blinking her sleep away. Leaning back and stretching, Virginia let loose a huge yawn and looked at him, the mind behind those eyes clearly not quite alert yet.

The android decided to leave her alone for a while. Letting go of Stybba's reins, Jet strode up to the small cottage and rapped on the wooden door with his knuckles, waiting twenty seconds, and then repeating himself after no response was made on the other side. Impatiently, the boy put pressure on the door and was not very surprised when it swung open to allow ingress, making a slight creaking noise. He peered in, seeing no little girl inside. There were a whole bunch of pots and containers, probably stuffed with herbs and things, crates, and a comfortable looking hammock. The room was a little dusty, which suggested that it was hardly ever inhabited. Florina must not be in today.

Jet leant out of the threshold and closed the door, looking back on the way they had came. Did he waste an entire night's journey in order to stand outside a vacant looking like an idiot? He snorted, it seemed like it. Virginia slowly climbed off her horse and wandered over to the boy in a thin haze, her hands ineptly knocking away the falling leaves that descended around her. As she stopped at Jet's side, he rolled his eyes. "Not a mornin' person, are ya?" It was an understatement, and she nodded sleepily. Jet had seen her like this before many other times, and knew that it took her at least an hour in the mornings to wake up properly. She was almost as bad as Gallows, sometimes.

"Um, hello?"

The youth turned slightly at the noise, and nearly jumped as he saw Florina suddenly standing _right_ next to him, when she hadn't been there only a minute before. Did the girl take pleasure in startling him like that? Luckily, Virginia was too drowsy to notice his reaction and make fun of it. Jet scowled, then realised that only a lowlife bastard would scowl at such a little girl and he modified his expression to a guarded one, folding his arms haughtily. Florina held a hand in front of her mouth, ever shy and timid.

She had an empty watering can in her other hand, the moisture in the container phasing through the metal and coating the entire tool in a wet sort of sheen. Jet concluded that she must have just been tending to her flowers, though he couldn't see any in sight. What was she watering, dead weeds? Setting the instrument on the ground, Florina removed the hand from her mouth and smiled, dusting some dirt and soil off her clothing. "Hello Mister Jet. Did you come for some supplies today?"

Virginia answered for him, coming out of her stupor. "We're looking for a certain plant, have you seen this before?" Stretching, she nodded, reaching into her pocket and pulled out a piece of yellowed paper. It had been torn out of a book in the Baskar storeroom by Shane, who had told her that the book itself was far too heavy and it would be better to take just the page instead. Unlike the other books from Baskar, this one had been acquired through trade from Claiborne and was written in English, which made it much easier for Virginia to read. She passed it to Jet, who held it out for Florina to read.

On the page, a particularly competent artist had drawn an illustration of the plant with a skilled hand, the colours vibrant and well done. The herb looked weedy and grew vertically tall, it's thin leaves a dark green with a whitish underside, looking to be frail to the touch. It had purple flowers along each different branch of the stem, the petals cupped to the core within. The plant looked fragile and delicate, unsuited for Filgaia's harsh climate. 

Florina read the words underneath. "Wolfsbane… you want some wolfsbane, is that right?" She looked uncertain. "I usually only grow plants for healing purposes, not poisons…" She gently took the sheet of paper from Jet, scanning the written text underneath it's picture. "_Aconitum napellus_, more commonly known as Aconite, Wolfsbane, or Monkshood. It can be synthesized into a poison called aconitine, which is deadly." Florina looked up at them. "You're not planning to do anything like that, are you?"

Shaking her head in a negative motion, Virginia vehemently pleaded her case. "Oh, no. That's not why we need it, we need the plant to help make a cure for our sick friend. Florina, if you have any of the herb left in your stores or anything, it'd mean the world to us if you lend us some. Please?" Virginia's eyes flickered in confusion as Florina knelt down and picked up a rather large fallen leaf from a tree nearby, turning the stem around between two fingers and rotating the piece of foliage. She smiled sadly, and then spoke.

"You've picked the wrong season to visit this garden. In the autumn," She scuffed one foot through the dead leaves, "During this space of time, the flowers are in their long and deep slumber. Not much will grow when the land is at rest." Passing the paper back to Jet, she picked up her watering can again, the water collecting on the outside evaporating in the sun. "The earth will awaken when spring comes, but until then, I tend to this garden like one would honour a grave, so that the flowers here did not grow and thrive for nothing. As long as at least _someone_ treasures a memory, it will never be deemed pointless."

Virginia's face fell. "All the flowers are dead?" She asked, brushing a wisp of hair out of her face. Did they come here for nothing? The drifter watched Florina take her watering can to the small pond near her house and fill it, the water source never seeming to run dry. The girl's small arms trembling slightly from the heavy weight of the container, she wandered over to one of the proud sturdy trees and watered it, her eyes filled with empathy.

When the weight of the container decreased as the water was distributed, Florina decided to answer. "No," She disagreed, "The flowers here cannot die. They merely sleep after their life has ended, in await for the rebirth of the new seasons. When spring comes, they will bloom once more, and I know that their spirits will be the same as before, though their bodies may be different, and they have grown inwards as well as outwards. The cycle will continue until they wither again, and that is what makes my flowers strong, and happy. Nothing lasts forever, but nothing can ever truly die as well."

Virginia suddenly wondered if she was listening to a little girl speak at all. Florina seemed to have a hugely adult approach to mortality, even if she compared it to something as childlike as the growth of a flower. It was beautiful, like poetry. Jet just looked blank, his hands shoved sulkily in his pockets. Clasping her hands together, the drifter stared at the ground and sighed. "So, you don't have any aconite, then?"

Florina tipped the last few drops on the base of the tree trunk, wiping her hands on her dress. Turning to the other two people, she gave them a hopeful smile. "I'm not really sure, but the aconite cultivation period was about a month ago. That isn't too long, so maybe if we visit the flower fields out the back, we might be able to find some. Maybe we will be lucky?" The girl walked up to Jet again and pulled at one of his arms, trying to make him move. "Come on, Mister Jet. Let's go look." He was reluctant to move for a bit, but then gave up his silence and sighed, allowing himself to be led away by the little girl.

Stybba was happily drinking from Florina's pond and enjoying her rest, so Virginia tethered her down to the branch of a tree and left with them, trying to keep up with the little girl and the android. The drifter couldn't help but smile at how attached Florina was to Jet and his stony disposition, although the reason why had always eluded her mind. Still, it was very cute. _Jet_ was very cute…

Virginia halted, and then had an almost uncontrollable urge to slap herself. Her stupid brain was getting out of control again. This was not the time to be thinking about stuff like that, If any time was appropriate at all. They had to get this herb and go back to Baskar as soon as possible, for Clive and Catherine and Kaitlyn's sake. They walked for a few minutes and went around the back of Florina's cottage, while the girl talked all the way there. To strangers, she was a very quiet and secretive person, but to friends, she sure could _talk._

"I usually do most of the watering early in the morning so that the sun will not evaporate the water and deprive the plants of nutrients. That means I can save the water for when I really need it the most, in case of a fire or something. It _does_ mean I have to get up extra early in the morning, but I think that the effort is worth it, don't you think so, Mister Jet?" Jet opened his mouth to say something, but Florina cut him off within a second. "One day I hope to cover the entire planet with beautiful flowers! It is what my auntie always wanted to do, but she left before she could complete that task. So, I am doing it in her place. Do _you_ think I can do it, Mister Jet?"

"I guess so." Jet replied, shooting an imploring look at Virginia behind him that practically screamed for help. Seeing this, the drifter leader chose to ignore him and began to giggle, shaking her head. His gaze blackened, but the look was short-lived, ending up as a defeated sigh. Making a mental note, Jet decided to do something evil to Virginia later as punishment.

The land dipped slightly as they walked down into a sloping field, no longer looking as beautiful and as vivacious as it used to be. It was a mixture of pale green grass and a multitude of brown withered vegetation, with a few living flowers and herbs dotted here and there to remind people of once better times. Autumn, the season of withering, the passage unto death. Virginia tried to avoid stepping on the dead flowers as much as she could, but there were just so _many_ of them that it blanketed the ground like a coating of dead leaves. Her boots crunched at every step, and she tried to walk on bare grass whenever possible.

Florina was relying on sheer memory to recall where she had last seen a patch of aconite growing, yet everything resembled everything else when it was dead, and she guided them to a slight hill nearby, going up the slope and dragging Jet behind. "This is a good place to picnic on when the weather is good," She explained, "Because the soft winds make it pleasant and it hardly ever rains too hard. Wolfsbane grows on the hills, so I think this'll be the best place to find some. Everybody look."

The three people got to the task of finding a purple flower amongst the dead vegetation, slightly sparser on the hilltop. Virginia and Florina searched delicately by gently pushing the dead flowers away, but not disturbing them any more than they had to. They were of a crumbly texture in Virginia's hands, and it felt saddening to know that they once coloured the fields with a dazzling variety of hues. It was nature, part of the cycle, as what Florina had said, but it was still sad. She cupped a flower in both hands and ran a finger along a dried petal, biting her lip as the petal broke off and fell into her hand, separate from the rest. It was still a faded blue, just the tiniest bit of colour still there. Yet, it was dead.

Jet was taking a more direct approach, yanking all the flowers that didn't resemble the aconite out of the ground and tossing them aside, into a little pile of refuse. He was moving rhythmically, hardly taking the time to appraise each plant. Every so often he would come across a still living one, and he would ignore it, but the others were just casually removed. He wanted to get this part over with so he could go and do something more worthwhile, not picking flowers like a stupid moron.

"Oh!"

The two drifters turned to look at Florina who has moved to the base of the hill in her search, the girl standing solemnly with her back to both of them. Her hand went to her face again, and she bowed her head, quietly upset. Virginia hauled Jet to his feet and they descended down the hill, standing behind her. Florina slumped her shoulder, and faced them. "I have found aconite." She said, pointing to the ground at her feet.

The aconite plant had crumbled in on itself, coloured an emaciated brown with the leaves and petals torn off, just another lifeless corpse lying in eternal rest upon the ground. Dead.


	48. Spark Of Life

Virginia fell heavily to her knees beside the withered plant and held her hands out to it, the tips of her fingers brushing against the dead leaves and stem. She didn't know what to say, or to do. They had all been so hopeful of success, and she knew that fortune always favoured the brave, and the determined. She had tried so hard to believe in chance, she had wished, she had hoped…

Both her fists connected with the ground hard, crushing a few other dead plants ringed around the aconite, the drifter leader bowing her head in loss. Jet was standing behind her, and said nothing at all. Florina had left the mound, in a futile attempt to find another seedling of the herb, refusing to believe that hope had departed. They had already searched _everywhere_, and this dead little sprout was the only piece of aconite in the entire secret garden and beyond. Even if Gallows _did_ get lucky and find the arnica herb that he was looking for, it would be perfectly useless without the other vital ingredient to back it up and reinforce. Without aconite, Clive would remain a monster forever.

"This is it, huh?" She muttered bitterly to the youth behind her, shaking her head. "This is what we tried so hard for? A tiny corpse? Why is this- it's not supposed to be this way…" Virginia trailed off into quiet sobs, holding a hand to her face to hide her tears. What would she say to Catherine when they came back empty handed? Sorry? No, she couldn't face the others without a hope to give to them, she would never be able to look them in the face and see their sorrow, knowing that it was _her_ fault for it being there. For being a bad leader, not even able to complete a simple task. Because of that, many people she cared about would suffer.

Jet looked away. "Not supposed to be this way, eh? What way _is_ it supposed to be? I expected as much from a dead planet like this. I'll tell you what, never get your hopes up too high, or else it'll hurt even more when it all comes crashin' down." Virginia gave him an odd look, her blue eyes misty through the tears. It was just like Jet, to be a cold asshole when nobody wanted his input. If she didn't feel so weak and shaky inside, she would have knocked his lights out, then and there. "Don't get me wrong," He continued, "Hope is good and all, take it from me, I know." He patted an inside pocket of his jacket, where his Hope Shard lay in wait, smirking ironically. "But too much of it will make your life miserable. You're bound to be disappointed half 'o the time, that's what makes life challenging and difficult."

The girl's voice was calm, laced with a held back desperation. "So, what do _you_ suggest we do now, Jet? Do we give up?" The boy was about to make a structured answer when he was suddenly silenced by the murderous look in Virginia's eyes as she turned to him, losing his reply. Every word becoming more hysterical as the sentence moved along, she continued. "Of course that's what you'd say, it's not as if you ever_ feel_ anything anyway. You're always so cold, Jet, like you don't give a damn about anything or _anyone_! And that's the way you want it to stay, right? _Right_?!"

Hanging his head and looking listlessly at his shoes, Jet took one great exhalation and said one syllable, the word short and powerful in it's simple delivery. Glancing up and locking his artificial violet eyes with hers, he threw away doubt and just went for it. "No." He said, brushing past her and yanking the dead herb out of the ground with delicacy. "No." He repeated, feeling the plant's life force barely existing within it's ruined shell.

Virginia looked more than confused, stepping away from the silver-haired boy. Equalising his hold on the plant by adding another hand to support the aconite, Jet placed it over the other so the plant could no longer be seen, hidden under his thick guard glove. His eyes did not stray from Virginia's, and for the first time she noticed how intense the violet hue was when focussed upon her, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and tingle. "What… are you going to do?" She asked automatically, a weak wind blowing her plait and loose strands of hair back.

Jet remembered what the living plant looked like, from the piece of paper shown to him and tucked away in one of his pockets. It was suited for a milder environment, where there was more water and less sun, thousands of years ago, before the great wars scarred the earth. In a time where only Jet could remember, where only _he_ could exist. "I am an android, so I get hunches sometimes, unexplainable ones." He replied, repeating the words he had said to her only the other day. "And with that, I am a…uh, a rewriting machine."

He knelt, cupped hands out in front of him, and Virginia watched with fascination as he closed his eyes and seemed to vacate his body with the intense concentration needed to focus an ARM, or in Jet's case, trigger his special power. A green light shone between the cracks of his fingers as it was hidden underneath the gloves, the boy remembering back, to an ancient world, where everything was pure and untouched.

And Jet was all of a sudden walking through a field of _living_ flowers, blossoms of red, blue, yellow, white, purple and many more hues covering the emerald green grass and creating a veritable rainbow of life, the drifter slowly making his way through the foliage and not stopping. It was a lot cooler here, like he stood in a permanent shade, the temperature mild and inviting. This world, it was only the inside of his first memory and not essentially real, but it's value to Jet was worth more than all the gella he could get his hands on. This memory was priceless.

__

A memory of the past can save the future…

Brushing aside a cluster of dazzling wildflowers, Jet climbed up the exact same hill Virginia and Florina were inhabiting somewhere in the future, shaking his head almost disbelieving at what he was seeing. The hill was _purple_, thickly populated with a patch of healthy fresh aconite, in such large quantities that no grass could be seen underneath it. This was the motherload. Jet reached the top a pulled a fairly healthy one out of the soil, looking the flower over. He could not take this plant back with him to reality, that was a certain impossibility, but he _could_ memorize the information, the chemical make-up of the plant, and take _that_ back with him. As a rewriting machine, Jet could save this data and maybe…

Virginia grabbed Jet's shoulders as the boy threatened to topple over, sweat standing out on his brow and all his muscles going limp. He didn't let go of the plant, however, and that was the only part of him left that still seemed to be existing in this world. His lips moved in quiet speech, but it was Adam Kadmon who was talking, not Jet Enduro at all. "_Aconitum Napellus_ download in progress. Overlapping deoxyribonucleic acid program onto control sample via Kadmon conduit #2. Downloading…"

Confused by his seemingly delirious rambling, Virginia regretted yelling at him with a passion and hugged his body closer to hers, hoping that he would come out of his trance soon, so she could apologize to him. Jet's body temperature had increased and he was breathing deeper, teeth gritted in concentration. Something was draining his stamina, and it made him look like he was in some form of pain. Florina returned, but it was not to a heartening scene. Gasping, she got to her knees quickly and bit her lower lip, frightened. "What's wrong with Mister Jet?" She asked worriedly, eyes wide.

About to confess that she had no idea, Virginia was silenced as Jet suddenly calmed down, opened his eyes and sighed, falling forward into her arms. The green glow faded, and he was Jet Enduro once more. Opening his hands and dropping it's contents, the aconite plant slipped between his fingers and laid to rest on the grassy ground, purple petals vibrant in contrast to it's departed brothers. Florina noticed it and uttered a noise of surprise, picking up the healthy young seedling and turning it over in her hands. It was a miracle, only seconds ago it had been lifeless and dead.

Virginia noticed this as well, tilting Jet's chin up so she could speak to him properly. His eyes were a little glazed over and his breathing was erratic, like too much of his energy had gone into the resuscitation of that tiny little plant. "How?" She asked, in the hopes that Jet was alert enough to answer her.

It took a little while for the question to reach Jet's brain, and then a little more time for him to formulate an answer and reply, feeling like he had just run about twenty miles without a break. Expelling a shuddering breath, he smirked and pushed Virginia away, getting up by himself. A little wobbly, he wiped the sweat off his face with the back of a hand and glanced at both girls with deliberation. "You know by now, I remember things I'm not supposed to remember, and I have a good memory when it comes to stuff like that. I know what aconite looks like, an' I know what it's made up of as well, so it's no problem for me to rewrite the plant with the data I already have. There was still a spark of life left inside the dead plant, so I kinda just brought it out and changed it. It's easy when you're an android, see?"

Both girls looked at him with mixed expressions. Florina just seemed to be confused, unaware of Jet's unnatural origins, while Virginia's face flickered into several different feelings consecutively before it finally decided on one, the girl crying out and nearly knocking the breath out of Jet's lungs as he was hugged mercilessly, the boy too shocked to make any physical reaction to her. Virginia cursed into his chest and hit him gently, shaking. "Wh-why didn't you tell me you could do that?" She breathed with emotion, unsure on what to think.

Jet felt his neck beginning to be dampened by her tears, so he patted her on the back comfortingly and shot a glance at Florina, who was carefully inspecting the plant for any explanation on how it was now alive. Pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket, Florina wrapped the seedling up securely and tied it together with a piece of string, knowing that the two drifters now had what they wanted, somehow. She was glad to have helped, even though she didn't really do anything.

The silver-haired boy pried Virginia away and held her at an arm's length, hands planted on either shoulder with both their eyes locking together. He shrugged. "I didn't know," He admitted airily, "But I had a hunch, I tried, and it worked. Hope, eh? Too much is a bad thing, but not enough is also just as bad. Kinda reminds me of gella, actually." He chuckled, but was cut off as he saw Virginia staring at the ground, her eyes uncertain.

Then she looked up, and she was smiling again. "I don't quite know _how_ you managed to do it, Jet, but I'm not about to question a miracle when we need one the most. Thank you." Shrugging his hands off her shoulders, Virginia leant over, grabbed him by his red and white bandanna, and then kissed him softly on the cheek, noticing exactly how much Jet tensed when the contact was made. Lingering there for a few choice moments, she then pulled away and faced Florina, slipping into her usual and much more cheerful disposition.

Going silent, Jet just went into his own little world for the time being, a light red blush spreading from his neck and up to his cheeks. Gradually, a hand travelled up to his cheek and held it weakly, his expression lacking any coherent thought. Truth to tell, Jet had never been kissed by a girl before. It was strangely… _nicer_ than he would have expected. "Nurm…." He murmured incoherently, making no sense whatsoever.

Florina passed Virginia the parcel she had made, adjusting her hat afterwards when her hands were freed. "It looks like Mister Jet just swallowed a fly," She noted with a giggle, "Or maybe something even bigger. _Please_ be careful with that plant, it is very, _very _rare. I hope your friend gets better soon, tell them that I hope they recover." The girl kicked Jet's pile of dead vegetation, the foliage scattering up in the air like a rain of brown snowflakes. They landed around her, and she laughed. "I am going to work hard so that the next spring will be the most beautiful ever! Then my auntie can be proud of me! I better be getting back to my chores, Virginia, Mister Jet. Goodbye." Waving a little, she descended down the hill and made her way back to the cottage, gratified at the other's happiness.

"Nurm…" Jet slurred.

Virginia waved for a bit, then turned back to Jet, the boy still somewhere in another universe. She seemingly ignored this. Like handling an object made of fine china, the drifter leader placed the parcel in her pocket and smiled, her face beaming. "So, what do you say? How was _that_ for luck?" She placed a finger on her chin, thinking. "Lombardia must have had a nice long rest by now, do you think she'd give us a lift back to Baskar Colony? Oh wait, I just need to free up Stybba and then we can go. What do you think, Jet?"

"Nurm…?"

She waited for a few seconds for a _legible _answer, but when she received none, Virginia grabbed his wrist and led the boy back down to the cottage, where Florina was feeding a generous amount of dried-out grass to the pure white mare tethered there. Rested, the horse looked up when Virginia uttered her name, and came when she was called, the girl cheerfully releasing the horse until she would be needed at another time. That was the good thing about horses, they were loyal to the very end. Well, Virginia took a moment to reflect upon Arod, _almost _all of them were.

Leaving his trance and feeling horribly upset over it, Jet called Lombardia and she curtly answered, replying that she would be there within minutes. In Filgaia, dragons were the epitome of efficiency. The two people looked into the blue sky just outside the secret garden, wondering how Gallows was holding up. Actually, only Virginia was thinking about this, Jet had his mind, as well as his eyes set elsewhere.

"…What are you staring at?" Virginia asked when she couldn't hold the question in any longer, the temporarily shapeless form of Lombardia appearing on the horizon. Jet hurriedly looked away, defensively moving into a forced stony façade.

"Uh, nothin'." He lied, turning around and crossing his arms moodily. However, even acting like this, the android just couldn't help but crack an embarrassed smile.


	49. Wolf

He found that his strength got a little bit stronger after he began walking again, letting the ground go by without much thought and concentrating on his navigation, alarmingly calm for someone in his own predicament. Clive was retracing his steps briskly from where he had trodden last night, the trail quite easy to follow as long as he let his gut instinct lead the way. The Schrodinger camp was not too far away from his intended direction anyway, so it would be absolutely no bother for him to drop by and visit them, to find out whether or not he had actually _done_ anything to them, or their leader.

Despite his muscles being stiff and sore, the entry into a flatter part of the canyon silenced their incessant protests, for having to neither descend or ascend made them work properly without complaint. The mountains were growing more distinct in the horizon and he could see their peaked tips, yet their solid foundations were lost in a sea of transparent heat waves, mixing the earth with the lower sky. Clive's direction was a little off-course to those mountains, even if it was his ultimate destination. Just a little bit further and he would be back at the campsite, if his murky memory served him correctly.

Memory. That was what the focus of his mind was upon, the seemingly unrelated flashes of memory the influence of Boomerang was transmitting to his own spirit, in the form of restless dreams. What was their meaning, what did they have to do with _him_? It made no sense to Clive in his weakened state, he just couldn't think too deeply with all that inhabited his mind. It was a lingering trait from his lycan form, his mind slowly growing unused to thinking as a human any more. Though only the barest traces showed up in his consciousness, Clive was losing the comprehension of his more human self.

The drifter was carefully counting his paces as he gradually made progress in his march, so he paused in a perplexed manner when his foot crushed something furry underneath the soles of his boots, definitely _not_ his tail this time, for he experienced no pain at all from the motion. The pressure dribbled a little bit of blood out of the object, and he heard the audible crunch of broken bone. Stepping back a bit, Clive recognized the body of a thoroughly mauled wild rabbit, most of it's meat torn off in strips while it's stomach had been chewed away. He blanched, now aware of why he wasn't particularly hungry without having eaten breakfast. He had already done so while the moon was still full.

"Oh my.." He said quietly as he took another step back, not very horrified but feeling more than his share of guilt. Scanning the area, Clive could see more than one corpse scattered across the ground, all mangled and partially eaten. He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced, still a little relieved that his bestial malice had not been directed towards any innocent humans. "A brace of conies? That is better than humans, I suppose…" He picked up the torn rabbit and held it by it's long ears, inspecting it's fatal injuries. If he had learnt anything from this trip into hell, it was to identify his own bite marks if he ever saw them. They were definitely of a canine or lupine origin, but deeper and more pronounced. Yes, they were his.

Clive dropped the carcass and kept on moving, now following the trail of dead bodies as well as the one left by scent. Death and mutilation were just… no longer frightening to him anymore. In truth, he was a little impressed by the neatness of the kill, the rabbit had been given a swift and painless death by a broken neck before they had been bitten into, it was almost as if the human and the wolf inside him were fighting rabidly for dominance. And, he knew this without a shadow of a doubt, his hands curling into fists as he continued one, Clive was well aware that the wolf part of him was steadily gaining ground and changing him into it's own image. Hell, he was a great deal wolf already, even in full sunlight.

__

And when Catherine sees what you have become, she will call you a monster and send you away. She will **hate** you, and Kaitlyn will **fear** you…

He ignored the annoying voice of his inner doppelganger and felt something heavy in the pocket of his coat, knocking against his leg whenever he took a step. Clive kicked aside another dead rabbit and reached into the pocket hesitantly, expecting almost anything to be residing within. He smiled ironically as he yanked the offending intruder out, an exceptionally plump rabbit he must have been saving for a later date. He threw it away with mild revulsion and wiped his hands on his coat, not wanting to catch some kind of infectious rabbit disease.

Then, like a breath of fresh air into his consciousness, Clive heard a cadre of voices, this time outside his own head. He tensed and then ducked for cover behind a sharp tombstone-like rock, huge and covering. The sound of humans nearby had startled him so much that he had temporarily forgotten that he was _searching_ for them in the first place, his first impulse to hide himself right away. Thinking for a moment, Clive realised his folly and then sighed, nervously adjusting his glasses. To see if his memory was failing or not, he would have to go into the campsite without armament or indecision. He hated the idea, but he had no other choice.

Employing all the stealth skills required for a drifter of the sniper persuasion, Clive crept around the giant rock and made for cover behind a cluster of smaller ones, growing ever closer to the source of the noise. Peeking over the edge of the jagged stone, he saw the clearing of a small campsite, the inhabitants within enjoying a late breakfast. There was a girl, two guys and a cat, all arguing in some small way with each other. To an outsider though, it seemed more like the girl was loudly proclaiming her plans while the others attempted to convince her of a more sensible course of action. From the small snippets of information Clive could glean, it seemed that they were headed for a trip to the nearly endless abyss.

He counted the members of the team. Todd and Alfred, accounted for with Shady close by, and at last Maya Schrodinger, alive and looking well. A huge weight dropped away from his mind and he exhaled in relief, glad. But, he still had memories of visiting them the night before and had to verify some facts, to set his mind at total ease. Clive stepped back and dusted himself off, habitually adjusting his glasses. He felt and probably looked like shit in his current condition, something he really couldn't help right now, but the Schrodingers were a prestigious team and he also had to hide a few things before stepping into their camp.

Clive took his coat off for a few moments and shook out all the dust and other foreign elements rattled off the fabric, surprised at the amount of dirt that managed to come off. He coughed on the air for a second, freezing afterwards when he feared that he had been too loud and he would be caught. The anxiety was unjustified when nobody jumped him, the drifter taking the chance to breathe again and slip the old coat back on. Utilizing an idea he had only recently devised, Clive knelt down and buckled up the sand guard at the bottom of his coat, keeping his legs and what else was there hidden. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, whenever Clive chose to walk a small part of his tail stuck out from under the rim of the coat and he couldn't conceal that very well, resorting to wrapping it around one leg and ignoring how awkward it felt. There, that seemed about right, and Clive guessed he was ready.

Maya looked up as she heard the crunch of rocks warning her of an intruder into their little area, her calculating and sharp eyes darting up as Clive entered. They narrowed, and like a silent trigger for the others, Todd, Alfred and Shady were suddenly at the hidden defensive. The sniper slowly held up both hands as he grew closer to them, as a sign to prove that he was unarmed and unwilling to fight. Maya just shrugged, and Clive dropped them, now within speaking range. The blonde woman folded up the small carpet of maps she was looking at and snorted, inhospitable. "Whaddaya want?" She sneered, appearing to be more interested in her maps than Clive's entrance.

He found himself at a loss on what to say. He couldn't really tell the truth, and it was none of their business anyway, but he had to get the right sort of information out of her, a hard task considering who she was. There was only one thing for it. Clive would have to lie, blatantly, or at least warp the truth a little. He collected his wits and spoke formally, like he did when explaining details to a exceptionally valuable client. "I.. I am tracking a certain monster throughout this canyon, one that is most dangerous and violent." Yes, this seemed to be a pretty good tale, "I lost the scen- err, trail last night and I was wondering if you have seen it, or encountered it at all during your stay here. Is this so?"

"What does the bastard look like?" She replied curtly, looking the man up and down. He looked like death warmed over, whatever he must have been tracking certainly was taking it's toll on him, that was for sure. Maya had never seen a man look so exhausted, and at the same time so quietly resolute, he almost looked like he was going to fall over at any given time, but somehow she knew that it would not be so. One hand moving to massage her bruised wrist from last night, all she did outwardly was continue to frown.

"It is lupine yet bears a human quality, standing slightly taller than I am." He said dully and without vigour. "It may have been agitated, and it may have been dangerous. Have you encountered it?" Clive watched all the faces turn to Maya's, and the woman thought deeply for a moment, then nodded. The metal demon felt a freezing cold fear immediately clutch at his heart, like a frosted iron vice. He felt the fur underneath his clothing rise at the unpleasant sensation, but he pressed on, hardly any apprehension marring his decent poker face. "I see. Were any of you harmed? I am deeply sorry for it's malice if you were, I should have destroyed the menace when I last had the chance." He was not lying, there.

In opposition to her fine and delicate features, Maya's words were at best crude and incredibly direct. "Ah, the Maxwell Team's big bad bounty hunter." She acknowledged firstly before moving onto business. "I saw your monster. It did _this_ to me." And she pulled up both her sleeves before tugging down the neckline of her dress for about an inch, showing rings of painful blue bruising around her wrists and most importantly her neck, hinting at a few minor breathing difficulties. Every time she inhaled, it must have really stung. Clive went a little white and looked away, closing his eyes. Maya found a sadistic pleasure in this, moving on. "The little fucker thought it might be fun to try an' take advantage of me, it got yours truly last night an' nearly had it's way," She smirked arrogantly and tapped her left temple, nodding slightly, "But I was smarter than it was. I gave it a good clobbering and it took off, most likely won't bother me again."

"What about us, Sis?" Alfred muttered underneath his breath, "We helped out too…"

But Clive had stopped listening as soon as Maya had confirmed his deep seated fear, that he had almost, just almost, taken advantage of a young girl who was probably no older than Virginia, it made him feel physically ill inside. What would have happened if he had not been stopped, what would he have _done_? This was, in Clive's mind, damn near close to Hell. Meekly, and limping slightly from having to hide his tail, Clive shuffled over to a small rock and sat down heavily, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his head. Annoyingly, he adjusted his glasses again and sighed. "I am so very sorry for any discomfort it-, … _he_ may have caused you. This is entirely my own fault. I apologize."

Maya raised an eyebrow at Clive's strange apology, wondering what the hell he was saying sorry for. He may have been _hunting_ the monster, but that didn't mean he should take responsibility for it was well. Those weird Eastern Highlanders, they always were a little too eccentric for her tastes. Shrugging, the girl threw a piece of food at Clive, the sniper catching the wrapped piece of dried meat entirely on reflex. He stared at it for a short while, then glanced back up at her, uncertain. "You eaten recently?" She asked gruffly, stashing away her navigational maps in her inventory.

Clive thought back to what he would have only recently considered a meal, a scattering of dead rabbits and shrugged, shaking his head only moments later. He set the food aside and sidled away from it, as if he was anxious of accepting anything of value from her. He almost looked guilty over something. The drifter spoke quietly, like somebody had turned his volume all the way down. "I should leave now. Thank you for your time, but my own is of the essence. Good day to you, and I hope your ventures are prosperous." He stood up, and tried to move away.

The leader of the Schrodinger team was now in front of him and she grabbed his shoulder, pushing him back down onto his seat. Clive had to stop himself from openly snarling at her, catching and suppressing the impulse just in time. He gave up resisting and looked back at the other humans around him, aware of exactly how out-of-place he was. Maya let go and moved back to her seat, now absently chewing on a piece of rationed food. "Lemme just say I don't like it very much," She informed him bluntly, "About lettin' you stay here for a little while. But you know, if I _did_ let you go when it looks like a bunch of golems have been playin' tennis with your body, I bet your bratty leader won't never let me hear the end of it, right?"

He couldn't help but smile. "I suppose you may be right, Maya." Clive replied as he took a bite out of the food he had been given, the curse of the lycanthrope meaning that he could only stomach raw or prepared meat. He was very fortunate that the Schrodinger's food stores had been low, and they only had beef jerky left. At least he was with people again, even if they were not _his_ people…

**__**

Your people died out nearly a thousand years ago, and you have killed all those who managed to survive to the present day. Executioner, a name befitting of one who hunts and destroys his own brothers, sisters and ancestors…

He was brought out of a momentary lapse of conscious thought by the cat-like creature Shady sniffing at his trench coat, orangey yellow fur standing on end. Perturbed, Clive nudged the creature away with a boot and immediately developed a dislike to the animal, even though he had previously been rather unbiased to him before today. It must have been because Shady was a.. a.. He couldn't even say it in his mind, the world was revoltingly distasteful. Shady was a _cat_. He managed to get the word out like the utterance of a curse, just barely. _Cat_.

"You… you smell funny.." He pointed out to the metal demon with puzzlement, skirting around his leg as Clive tried to kick him away again. "You smell like… rabbits and horses and cherries, with whiskey. And…" He paused for a long time to figure out another part of his little puzzle, jumping back after a moment and raising his hackles, hissing like wild. Small traces of smoke trailed up from his gleaming incisors as the cat bared them, upset. "…Dog! No, worse! Keep away from me!" The cat backed away with tension inherent in all his limbs, yowling out a word that didn't sound like English at all, but the drifter immediately understood. "Wolf!"

"Shady!" Alfred exclaimed in what he hoped was a scolding tone, the effect lessened from such a timid little speaker. The cat-like creature heard it's name being called and took this as a chance for escape, running into Alfred's lap and glaring at Clive with mistrust. The demon stared at the rock at his feet, the food he was eating rapidly forgotten. It was relieving for him to know that the extent of his assault had been nothing more than bruises, but it still didn't make it seem any easier for him to remain here, not when time was so precious. As soon as possible, Clive would leave again.

"Wolf…" He repeated vacantly to himself as any conversations or arguments flew straight over his head, no longer the centre of attention. The word sounded right, like it fitted into place with his identity and rendered everything else useless. Not Clive, not human, not the leader of the Black Shucks, just… wolf. He was becoming too tired to fight it anymore, he just _had_ to give in.

"Wolf." He said.

xxx 

Ravendor called out to the others behind him as some kind of moral support, or maybe he was imitating an army drill sergeant, forcing the bandits to both march, keep up his pace and answer questions all at the same time, in the incredible Filgaian heat. It took a Herculean effort to do just two, while three was murdering a whole lot of brain cells. The bandits were coated in sweat and heaving from the strain, while Ravendor was barely even winded. Some bastards always got all the luck. "¿¡Que le gustá más!?"

"¡Me gusta más la cerveza!" Antonio intoned, licking his lips. Dario thumped him on the back, agreeing with him. A few of them, in the intense heat, would really be a very nice idea right now. The foreign bandit always knew what he wanted, it was heartening. Yeah, a beer would really hit the spot right about now..

"¡Me gustan más las rubias!" Romero hollered, thumping himself on the chest and grinning, the other two bandits rolling their eyes in exasperation. How many times did he have to mention that in a day? Well, as long as he was proud of it, that was probably all that counted.

"¡Me gusta más leer!" Dario finished off loudly, receiving weird looks from the other two. Kaitlyn, not having to walk and sitting happily on the bearded bandit's shoulders, didn't understand what the words meant but still found them funny-sounding anyway, giggling cheerfully and tipping Dario's hat forward over her eyes. The ground looked high up from where she was, the little girl thought she would rarely tire of this.

Their leader smiled, but did not look back. "My, what different views you all have on the good life. In fact, it surprises me, for I once had a particular taste for all three, though, I assure you, not all at once." He chuckled, but seemed to be the only one who found this funny. The others looked clueless, and Kaitlyn wasn't really listening. "Not far now, not far now.." He added as a quiet afterthought, his smile going just the faintest bit sinister. He took out his picket of cigarettes and pulled one out, but then the drifter paused in the middle of lighting it, looking at his bad habit and medication all at the same time.

__

I do not need these anymore, do I? Of course not, it was already far too difficult to stop it, _No, not anymore. This will be the last time. I shall hide it no longer…_

There weren't many cigarettes left in the packet in the first place, so when Ravendor casually dropped them onto the dirty ground and purposefully stepped on the flimsy cardboard, the cigarettes inside were crushed beyond repair. He did not miss them, it was a filthy habit at any rate. Besides, from what he already knew, the medicine inside would soon be useless to him, anyway.

Pain shot down the muscles in his back for a few seconds, the drifter leader pausing and closing his eyes like he was savouring a moment, totally impervious to the hurt now. He smiled. "I hope I live… to see your face, to see it know what I know, and watch you die."

From that point on, Ravendor no longer looked back.

The last ties to his sanity were being unwound.

Another glossy black feather dropped into the dirt, lost from it's owner, but now bearing the slight glint of a razor-sharp edge.


	50. Into The Cave

Gallows stirred as he felt a loose cloth sack filled with ice press against his forehead, relieving his slight fever. It felt nice and he leant into the coolness, all the nerves in his body shaky and weak. His eyes were a little bit blurry, but he nonetheless recognized Shane sitting beside his bed, the youth noticing the newfound awareness of his older brother. He moved the ice pack away and smiled, the only person nearby. "Good morning!" Shane said brightly, receiving a drawn-out groan as an answer.

That groan eventually formed into words. "Urgh… Shane? What the… heck happened to me?" Gallows felt tingly all over, but the feeling was decidedly unpleasant and it hurt a little. He was lying on one of the beds upstairs in his house, staring dully at the ceiling. He had done this many times before when he was inflicted with a hangover, but his hurt stemmed from his body, and not the clogged-up feeling of his mind. This was worse than a hangover, Gallows had never been or felt this unwell for a very long time now.

"From they way you were twitching and burned, I guessed that you may have been electrocuted." Shane answered slowly, keeping his words fairly simple so that his injured brother could understand them. He had studied medicine before, and knew the effects electricity could have on the brain. The best thing for Gallows right now was to not force him into thinking too hard. The elder brother made an attempt at getting up, but his nerves failed him and he slumped back onto the bed, listening to the sounds of glass being moved, tools being implemented, and the sort of noises one could easily find inside an apothecary.

"Geez… well… when can I get up again?" He asked, feeling scratchy gauze around his face. His clothing was a little stained with his own blood, after spurring Mearas like the wind and running from as many monsters as possible, it seemed that a hasty departure only made the monsters even more eager to catch you. Gallows had been forced to fight in a weakened condition for _far_ too many battles. It had been a race against time, and it looked like he had barely made it. All he could hope now was that he had brought home the right plant.

Shane shook his head in disapproval. "You won't be getting up anytime soon," He warned Gallows, "Give yourself a break, big brother. Please relax, you have already done more than your share of work. Leave the rest to us, we almost have all of the ingredients now. All we have to do is wait for Virginia and Jet to get back. Until then, Catherine and Grandmother are working on the cure downstairs."

"They're doin' the antidote? Here, let me up, I wanna help. You know I'm good at that stuff…" He tried to get up again, nearly managing to get himself off the bed, but was forced to concede defeat as Shane pushed him down again, hardly allowing him to move. His body protested from the motion and he had to obey their commands, going limp and sighing. He really wanted to give assistance. 

"I'm really sorry about this, but…" Knowing that it would be the best thing for Gallows's health, Shane lent over and pressed two fingers against an artery running parallel to his jugular vein, timing the pulse of blood silently and applying just enough pressure as was needed. The technique only took about ten seconds before it was successful, the pressure point skill making Gallows's consciousness quickly slip away. The big Baskar closed his eyes, and went to sleep. 

Shane continued his quiet vigilance, leaving the people downstairs to their work. He himself really wanted to help, but this was something Catherine needed to learn all by herself, with a little aid from Halle. The antidote could readily be made from the ingredients without much hassle if circumstances were right, but besides the _physical_ ingredients, there was still one other that only Catherine could provide. A miracle. If Clive needed a miracle, then Catherine was the only one who could give it to him. _She_ was the deciding factor between success and failure.

In the end, everything would all be up to her.

xxx

The bandit team had paused outside the foot of the proud mountains, four of the five people looking up and trying their hardest to see it's distant peaks. Kaitlyn was gaping, she had never _seen_ anything so huge before. It just went up and up, so unbelievingly high that it's tips were shrouded with fog and cloud. Romero was holding a hand above his eye to see properly, and Ravendor was not too far away, leaning up against the trunk of a long dead tree.

"Well, here we are." He announced, obviously pleased. He saw Romero and Kaitlyn glancing up the mountain-side, laughed softly, and then shook his head, amused. "No, not up there. It would have taken us all day if that were so." He got off the side of the tree and beckoned to them, the raven sitting serenely in the bark-flaking branches landing gracefully on his master's shoulder. Ravendor barely noticed, and walked away. Kaitlyn held on tighter as Dario looked around and then followed his boss with hesitation, prompting Romero and Antonio to follow close behind. The harsh rock of the mountain did not slope gently up as it was supposed to, but it was divided into heights platformed into other heights. It's structure was very similar to a step pyramid.

Ravendor turned a corner, one hand against the rock wall as he moved, reaching a dry scrubland bush, growing stubbornly close to the wall and barely staying alive. He paused, turning around and smiling. Wrapping one hand around the flexible part of the bush's trunk, Ravendor pushed it aside and revealed a small hole in the rock face, badly cut and oozing claustrophobia. Gesturing to the entranceway, the bandit leader tried his best to keep his smile pure. "Alright now. Dario, Romero, in you go." He got twin looks of alarm, but ignored them. "Please trust me, it is not as cramped as it so chooses to present itself."

The two bandits just stared.

Dario set Kaitlyn down on the ground and looked worriedly into the tunnel, a bead of sweat rolling down his face. It looked very, _very_ narrow. Was the Boss being serious? "You gotta be kiddin' me," The bearded bandit croaked, "I… I can't fit in there! I'll be stuck!" He backed away from the opening, holding up his hands. Kaitlyn moved over to Ravendor's side as he motioned for her, taking the man's hand. Kestorael cawed happily at her and Antonio grinned, as if he knew something that the others didn't.

"We will follow you two in a minute." Ravendor smirked, focussing his gaze on an agitated Romero. "I trust you all have no complaints about this? _Romero_, do you object?" The blonde bandit paused, looking startled out of his mind, and then shook his head vigorously. "I thought so." He continued, nodding tranquilly. He stepped back, pulling Kaitlyn with him as he moved. The two bandits reluctantly crept up to the tunnel and shot an imploring glance at their boss, who seemed not to notice their misery. Antonio was fighting to keep a straight face behind him, and the gunner and ninja somehow did not notice this.

Whimpering, Dario set his knee on the edge of the tunnel and looked inside, darkness and the spikes of jagged rock poking up into the passage. He swallowed hard, turned to see Antonio give him an eager thumbs-up, then he pushed himself inside.

It took him nearly a minute to fit his entire body in, and it required a great deal of wriggling and grunting as well. Romero went in after with a lot less fear, he was much thinner than his older brother, and more flexible to boot. Besides, after his little 'talk' with Ravendor, Romero didn't particularly want to irritate his boss again. Soon, no visible trace of them was left to the other three. Antonio could not take it anymore. He collapsed into a fit of laughter, clutching at his stomach and sniggering. "B-Boss!" He spluttered, "You so mean! Oh, that evil!" He started to laugh again, and Ravendor merely shrugged, still smirking.

"I said before that I would have my fun," He answered knowingly, looking at the tunnel with a satisfied expression, "They may consider this an initiation into my team, if it helps their egos any." He pulled Antonio to his feet with seemingly no effort, the small man still snickering a little. Kaitlyn personally wondered what was so funny. Sounds were coming out of the tunnel, coarse scrapings and soft swearing. Maybe Ravendor was wrong, perhaps it _was_ tighter than he had said.

They walked a little bit further around the mountain-side, scarcely any longer than thirty seconds, before Ravendor lead them around a sharp bend and into the mouth of a cave. It was huge and gaping, as if it's innermost desire was to swallow them whole. It was wide enough for about eight people to walk abreast, and easily two or three times higher than an average man's height. This was the _real_ cave entrance, the other had just been a decoy, or maybe an alternate route. In any case, it still looked pretty scary.

The bandit leader felt Kaitlyn grip his hand a little more tightly as he knelt down to gently touch her on the shoulder, trying to be kind. "You needn't fear what lies beyond, Kaitlyn." He reassured her, "There may be monsters, true, but I promise that you shall be protected." He did not lie about this, he honestly would protect her. The little girl looked uncertainly into the cave, then back at her kidnappers, focussing on Antonio because he was shorter and much easier to see.

"I wanna be a drifter," She told them, "So I can't be scared." Kaitlyn let go of Ravendor's hand, content to stand by herself. She had to be brave. "I'm not scared." The girl declared, and made it a point that she was the very first one who stepped into the cave. Closely, Ravendor followed, a hand on the holster of his gun, just in case. Antonio immediately became the rear guard, claws sliding out of his leather gloves. This _did_ make her feel brave, even if they _were_ her kidnappers, at the same time, they were her guardians, and also… her teammates.

The cave did not smell stuffy, as she would have expected, but it was actually pretty well ventilated, a cool breeze rushing from one long corridor to the other. Rocks and debris crumbled all around their shoes, and if one used a little bit of imagination, one could think that this dismal cave had used to be a temple of some kind. The quiet echo of a hidden water source tinkled off the harsh stone walls, distant yet ambient. The area they were now standing in was large, just enough room to be considered as a giant antechamber. But it was heavily damaged, like somebody not too long ago had tried to bring the roof down and destroy the place. It was a very ancient temple.

Gravel crunched underneath his feet as Ravendor walked slowly to the center of the room, turning around languidly as if checking to see if everything was exactly as he had left it. He did not look dissatisfied, and he took his hand off his gun, dropping his guard for the moment. "I do believe the coast is clear." He called out to the other two people with reassurance, taking a quick stroll over to a wall on the far right hand side. Antonio followed, pulling Kaitlyn along with him. There was a hole in it, and it could easily be guessed what it's purpose was for.

Grunting and wheezing, Dario squirmed out of the narrow hole first, cut up a bit from the sharp rocks, and dirtied with dust and cobwebs. A few spiders and other insects crawled off him and he shakily got to his feet after flopping out, shuddering from where he had just been. The gunner just _hated_ small spaces. This place was better, though, it was cooler and larger, if still underground. Dario breathed in the air of freedom, pulling cobwebs out of his hair. Romero soon followed, nowhere near as dirty as his brother, but decidedly bruised more, his paler skin fragile against the sharp rocks that had passed under his hands and knees. It stung. The bandit sat down next to Dario, taking a breather. Then, they looked up.

Ravendor had his arms folded, the smirk he wore infuriatingly smug. "Was that a pleasant journey?" He asked smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief, "I am sorry, I seem to have gone ahead of you. Still, it is good to know that you grace my presence, despite all difficulties. Bleeding, are you? There is a water reservoir in the other chamber, you can clean yourself off there."

"That's impossible!" Romero exclaimed with astonishment, "How'd you get here, when we were… I mean, you know…" He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. He shot an imploring look at Antonio for answers, loathe to get them out of his boss, but the small ninja just shrugged, pointing to him and making a crazy motion with one finger. Romero began to silently fume. Dario, not wanting to cause any trouble, had already skulked off to find that water source, a set of footprints in the dirt showing the exact direction he had taken.

The dark-haired man's expression did not flicker. "Please excuse me," He began, "There is a perfectly good explanation, but I shall leave it up to you to figure out what that is. Why should I be inclined to explain my ways to a _minion _anyway, Romero? Oh, but I do not enjoy talking about _myself_, friend, I would prefer to tell you about this place, if you want to listen." The younger ninja looked dully at the floor, then nodded slightly, defeated. 

Ravendor raised a hand, indicating the room around them. "This was once a place of worship, a shrine to the Guardians. I do not know which one, precisely, but archaeological evidence seems to indicate that it's influence must have been a powerful one, if it was deserving of a once-beautiful sanctuary like this. Eleven years ago, it was nothing less than a marvel, even in it's ruins, but since then, all it is can be amounted to a big pile of rocks." He shook his head bitterly, the destruction of such an aesthetic place was saddening. "This is my hideout, no-one will ever find you here. For a religious temple, it is very acceptable once you get used to it."

__

A religious temple? Puh. This is your tomb, a mausoleum, a crypt…

Kaitlyn picked up a rock. It bore a slight carving from a smashed piece of art on the wall, some barely visible text written all over the slab of stone. The little girl could not decipher it. "Once upon a time there used to be temples all over the world!" She recited, a passage from one of her favorite storybooks, "And when you prayed in them, the Guardians would make all your wishes come true!" She set the stone back on the floor, just gently enough so she would not break it, or disturb the other pieces lying there. Maybe, if she took the time to slot them all together, what kind of story would unfold? It didn't really matter, seeing she couldn't read it, anyway.

"I doubt anybody would answer your prayers anymore…" Ravendor said quietly to himself. "If they did, then I would be-" He caught himself in time and dismissed the thoughts from his mind, absently desiring a cigarette. He changed the subject, one of his hands twitching slightly as he experienced a small jolt of pain. "No, forget that. It is not important. We will he waiting out the rest of the plan," He explained, "Right here, so make yourselves comfortable. It will not be long until this job will be over. With luck, it may be even sooner. Come with me, I will show you all around."

"Uncle Ravendor…" Kaitlyn said softly, pulling on his white jacket, "What will happen to me when the plan is over? What _is_ your plan? I wanna know. Why did you kid-nap me?" She had been meaning to ask this for a very long time, but had only just now worked up the courage. Her uncle's eyes went blank for the briefest few moments, formulating an answer, or a lie. No, he couldn't just lie to her, not to Kaitlyn... He remembered way back when he was a kid, Kaitlyn had been the only one who could see straight through his lies…

Adhering to that memory, Ravendor said nothing.


	51. The Way Of The Warrior

He decided to sneak away while the others were not paying any attention to him, creeping away from the Schrodinger camp and once again making his slow way towards the mountains. He was extremely relieved that he had done nothing horrible to his fellow man, and did the only thing left to keep them safe; walk away and never come back again. Clive, feeling better now that he had eaten something that was more or less edible for a human, left the area, moving around behind some rocks and judging how long it would take him to get to his destination.

That destroyed ruin was the most likely place Ravendor would hide out at, even if it was, ironically, the place where he was reputed to have died. Clive had barely escaped with his life intact, how the hell did Ravendor manage to do the same? And even so, why did the man never contact him again? Even if they were not friends anymore, they were still bitter rivals. And now, by the looks of it, they were sworn enemies.

__

… Why do you hate me? Clive wondered to himself, _I saved your life when you wanted to die, we went through Hell together, in fact, you were the one who even **named **me, when I was… just a foundling. Before then, I only went by as a stupid nickname…_

Nothing seemed very clear to him, like he was looking into a pool of water when the ripples were just beginning to manifest. What had happened? _Why_did Ravendor wish to harm Kaitlyn, or _him _for that matter? It was so confusing, and the lycan curse slowly changing his body made it no easier. For as long as Clive had stayed in the Schrodinger camp, that blasted cat had just made things uncomfortable. It wasn't just the way it had looked so warily at him, where he had no choice but to return the favour, but an unknown impulse in his system had repeatedly screamed at Clive to get up and chase the creature until it was cornered. It was a good thing he had gotten away in time before he actually _did _it.

Making a huge mistake by paying too much attention to his thoughts, Clive forgot that he was supposed to be inconspicuous and walked straight into another clearing, right into Todd's line of vision. He smelt the human before he heard or saw him, divided on what option he should take. He took a few paces back, alarmed, but then calmed down when Todd wasn't even paying much attention to him at all. A short while passed, and the swordsman finished off his round of successive strikes against an ancient and dead tree, the bark hacked away by the ritual. Noticing the sniper's entrance, he sheathed his sword and bowed, paying his respects.

Something in his mind switched itself on when Clive noticed the sword being kept docile in the pale wooden sheath, making his right hand twitch ever so slightly. It was a sword, a _real _sword, and not just the fabrication of some random dream. "Hello," Clive said, forcing himself to be calm, "I was just about to leave. Are you practicing?" Todd nodded, and Clive automatically continued, some of Boomerang's knowledge flowing into his words. "You wield a blind man katana, I see. Secretive, yet not too powerful, as a basic generalization. I would prefer to keep my sword as what it really was, a weapon, not a simple walking cane. It is honourable to let others know that you are armed."

Todd looked intrigued. "Are you also a swordsman?" He asked, "I was under the impression that you were a sniper…"

Clive had to cover for the slip of Boomerang's tongue, shaking his head and chuckling. "I do not have much, if any experience with the sword at all. I suppose you could call me a beginner, but I _do _seem to have some knowledge on the subject." That was the truth, even if it was Boomerang's knowledge instead of his own. He could feel the other metal demon's presence, and although it was not a violent or malicious one, it still bore a quota of quiet intrigue. Clive was not the only person interested in this conversation.

The afro-bearing swordsman leant against the tree, unbuckling his sheath from the belt around his waist. "May I ask you the name of your style, if you have one?" He said. Clive answered immediately, but Todd could have sworn that the sniper's eyes had just changed colour there for a second, from an icy blue to a crimson red. It might have just been the light reflecting off his glasses, but he just wasn't sure.

"_Akuma hatashiai gensoku._" Boomerang replied with infinite finality. "The demon duel principle."

"Demon…?" Todd began to reply, but caught the way Boomerang was staring intently at him with an eerie smirk and dropped the question, shrugging. Clive calmed down after a few moments, and Todd decided to take a chance and quench his curiosity. "Very well, then," He announced, tossing Clive the katana within it's plain wooden sheath, the sniper catching it on reflex, "Could you show me, please?" The demon looked at the sword as if he didn't know what to do with it, but then nodded and smiled, pulling it out of it's saya.

__

You were sworn to the way of the warrior, and you made a pledge to the Mother herself that you would fight for her… That you would die for her…

But I did… die for her…

No, you died for yourself, you died for Luceid, and the chance to come back… You died for another shot at life, a clean slate to work upon…Tell the truth, you died for the sake of the humans… for **all **humans…

Although the weapon truly did not belong to him, the size and shape of the blade gave him a subtle feeling of familiarity and calm, even in the way the simple wooden grip slipped pleasantly into his hand, and they way the blade shone in the sun. It was right, this felt right, and with a slight dryness in the back of his throat, Clive stepped into what he assumed was battle position one.

Spacing his feet out slightly from one another, right foot in front and the left one held back, he lowered the sword slightly so that the very end of the handle was parallel to his navel, both elbows slightly bent for better reflex. Now the blade was held straight with it' naturally curved edge geared perfectly for an attack, the man wielding the sword looking surer than a beginner was supposed to be. There was a slight error in the amount of space between sword and body, but Clive already seemed to have the general gist of it, so Todd decided not to point this out. Secretly, he was impressed. The green-haired man looked towards Todd in question. "Is this correct?" He said.

The swordsman nodded. "That is one of the five basic postures, _Chudan no Kamae_. Move your arms forward a little bit more and you would be in correct position… yes, that's it." Todd walked up to where Clive's imaginary opponent should have been, the man now pretending to hold an imaginary sword and mimic the same move. "You can see that if you were to attack me now, it would best be done by a slice through my collarbone and shoulder, a fatal blow." He paused for a bit, then continued. "Do you understand _Okuri-ashi _footwork?"

Clive spoke before he even had a chance to think, deriving information from a hidden source. "I do. It is the basic movement of the _Ki Ken Tai Ichi _principle, in allowance for a fluid strike with both and equal attack and defence." He blinked after a moment, lowering Todd's sword. How in the world did he know that? Was Boomerang supplying him with information again? No, it didn't feel like that, he was still in control, but now he knew things that he had never studied or learnt. Why did a sword feel so much better in his hands than a rifle ever could have been?

Todd stepped away, awaiting to see what kind of skills the sniper could show to him. Clive tested the weight of the sword a few times by raising and lowering it slightly, trying to find a particular grip that he was most comfortable with. The handle was a little too short for his liking, but he combated this by spacing his fingers out a little bit more, holding the entire focus of his strength in the tense gap between his thumb and index finger. Clive loosened the tension in his arm, somehow knowing that too much stress would make it more difficult to swing. "What should I test this on?" He asked Todd, still slightly unsure that what he was doing was right.

The swordsman got off the thick tree he was leaning against, the mottled decrepit bark scarred with the slash-marks of Todd's previous training. The wood inside was solid and as tough as a heart-of-pine, encased and unable to be reached. He patted the trunk gently, accidentally dislodging some scabious lichen. "This tree is already long dead." He said. "Feel free to use it as a training dummy."

He executed the attack as soon as the command hit his mind, moving forward in a concentrated flash and focussing the muscles in his arms, to prepare himself for the amount of energy exerted in his swing, removing the weaker hand from the grip and holding it for a defensive counter-strike that would never come. The edge of the blade met the rough bark of the tree with a slight whistling of air, though unable to conjure a proper conscious thought, Clive was amazed as he met no resistance and continued the swing, doubling back and swiping two more times for good measure. He skidded to a halt several feet behind the tree in a crouch, his sword arm inclined away from his body out behind him, the other one clenched against his chest to slow his thudding heartbeat.

Throughout all of this thought, feeling and emotion, only a nanosecond in time had passed. His blood had burned like it was on fire, frenzied in his system to swing a sword again outside of the dream world. It had been exhilarating, indescribable, even better than he ever could have remembered it…

… Again?

He blinked once in a confused silence, drawing himself to his feet once more. Angling the sword around carefully so it's edge was now pointed harmlessly at the ground, no longer the focus of his thoughts, Clive turned around to face Todd and bowed in the traditionally required manner, in utmost respect. Mesmerized, Todd watched Clive point mysteriously to the aged tree with a smile, the green-haired man almost expecting it when the solid wood seemed to freeze for a moment, and then fall to pieces in three separate parts, cleanly cut by the flash of a swift moving blade. It occurred to Todd now that Clive was certainly no amateur, a beginner could never do anything like _that_.

"That technique has a name," Clive said dully, in nearly a hypnotized tone, "An accelerated successive sweep executed thrice, known as the _Shadow Boomerang Maximum_. I almost forgot… what the rush felt like…" He smiled ironically, raising the sword a little so he could see his reflection in the blade. "The thirst for the fight… can drive a man insane. But I don't know if I should… I am no longer supposed to… I cannot hurt others anymore. I can only protect, I swore that I would only protect…"

"Swords do not kill people," Todd said, returning the bow that Clive had offered to him, "People kill people. A sword is an instrument, it can carry no blame. Only the wielder will bear guilt and take responsibility, therefore a sword art cannot be biased towards either good or evil." He stopped talking for a short while, staring at the vacant stump of the slaughtered tree. He could clearly see the rings inside, so accurate the amputation had been. "I don't think I've ever seen such a clean cut like that before." He admitted.

"So says the student of the fast draw." Replied Clive with no change in his smile, reflecting on the moment when the long-haired swordsman had skewered Boomerang straight through the stomach, spilling the demon's, no, _his own _blood everywhere. "I will take that as a compliment, then." He continued, resting a length of the smooth steel blade in the palm of his left hand, the metal not bearing even the slightest blemish from the execution of the deadwood tree. It was a remarkable tool.

"This sword is well made." Boomerang commented, taking the chance to borrow Clive's body for a second, even though the sniper was technically still there and listening. Boomerang wasn't about to do anything drastic, so Clive did not interfere. "Forged in the old human tradition, no doubt." The demon smiled, finding a new insight. "This is the traditional blade of the fast draw… So, there are still Fenril Knights even now?"

Todd was taken aback. "Yes, well, not really. It is my family's art, handed down throughout the generations so that we may protect and guard the remainders of royalty left in Filgaia." Secretly, he wondered how Clive knew about that, for there had been no Fenril Knights around for nearly a thousand years. His ancestors had been the last of that noble line.

"The Schrodingers are descended from royalty?" Clive questioned, going back to normal but still keeping up the conversation. He had always assumed that they were just a noble family and that was all, he never knew about these ties to royalty. It was interesting. Raising his sword arm above his head, he began to slice at the air in a vertical swipe, rhythmical and tiring on his right arm. It was an old exercise that made one's strength increase, but he still continued to speak. "There has not been a monarchy in Filgaia for quite some time, it has only been local law and anarchy as of late. You and your teammates must have a very ancient lineage." The exercise felt good, and so he continued to do it, counting each swing.

Wait a moment. A noble lineage, blonde hair, magical abilities… Clive could not help but think of the golden-haired woman he had seen in his dream, one of the three humans charged with killing Boomerang, who _had _killed Boomerang. What was her name? He was sure that Boomerang knew it, he just had to think a little. Clive counted to twenty absently in his own mind, the calm brought from the train of thought jump-starting one of Boomerang's memories. Cecilia Adlehyde, the daughter of royalty, and to the metal demon who had existed so long ago in the past, just another human to destroy. Maya was… a blood descendant of the Innocent One? Well, it would have explained her fixation on the tear drop, that was for sure.

__

Who we are in the present will always be accredited to the deeds committed in the past, for evil, like the fading environment, or for good, like the humans who have managed to survive this far… To find strength and hope in the harsh… desolate, blowing wind and sand…

Clive stopped when he realised that Todd was staring at him, falling into silence. The afro-bearing swordsman anxiously took a step back, if he had his sword, he probably would have raised it in defence. Confused, Clive stepped forward and offered the katana back to him, holding the hilt out in non-aggression. "What is the problem?" The drifter asked, still smiling and in a good mood. Todd was staring at Clive's boots, or more accurately, what was no longer hiding behind it. The sand guard seemed to have come undone while he was swinging Todd's sword around, and he, being his careless self, must not have noticed this.

He was wagging his tail with pride at having rediscovered Boomerang's sword art, forgetting that it was important for him to keep it hidden. Going white, he dropped the steel-bladed katana and stepped away, hearing the weapon's loud clatter.

Todd did move to reclaim his sword, drawing a shorter knife instead. The swordsman and the demon looked at each other warily. Todd had been on quite a friendly basis with Clive since Maya had been kidnapped by Siegfried, it was both their duty to protect their team's leader, so they did have some traits in common. Now, Todd wondered if this was Clive at all, this… _creature _was plainly not human. "What are you?" Todd demanded grimly, increasing the grip on his knife a little. "Have you come to harm Milady Maya and Master Alfred? You shall not get past me!" He declared.

Clive looked downcast, no longer trying to hide his mutation. "I do not know _what _I am," He admitted sadly, turning away, "But I used to be called Clive Winslett. A while ago, that was my name." Todd slowly slipped his knife away, regretting having drawn it. The creature claiming to be Clive didn't seem too dangerous, it had not attacked when it had the best chance. "And as for your team," He continued, "I would never hurt them unless I had absolutely no choice in the matter. You have all been very good to me, thank you." He sat down heavily, away from the sword, and settling into a cross-legged position, resting his hands and the end of his tail in his lap.

Moving carefully, Todd stepped forward and hesitantly picked his sword up, trying to stay away from Clive. Taking a moment to check that his sword was still clean, he slid it back into it's wooden saya and it became a simple walking stick once more, seeming to be perfectly harmless. "And you are still hunting this monster?" He asked, making conversation. Clive nodded, but did not reply, absently tapping his fingers against his leg. "Why?" Todd asked.

"… I am actually hunting _two _monsters…" He explained, raising his head to watch the nearby mountains, ringed with hazy clouds. Adjusting his glasses, Clive continued. "One is very close to me, _too _close for comfort. I will kill it as soon as I get the chance.. The other," His tone went as dark as night, "Is a blackened, godforsaken bird, one that should be shot out of the sky. He has taken my cu- … daughter hostage, and for that, I shall hunt him to the ends of this planet." No, that was not entirely true. Clive would go far beyond Filgaia just to get her back. He stood up. "Now I had better be going, I cannot stay here any longer."

"Well, whoever you are, do not come back to this place again," Warned the swordsman, walking briskly back to the campsite and quickly moving away from Clive, "If you are not Mr. Winslett, then do not pretend to be. Humans should stay with humans, and the others must find what they want by themselves." He paused and then tapped the sheath of his weapon, a hardly noticeable gesture. "Monsters are not wanted on this planet, that is why drifters are charged with dispatching them. _Creature_, you are not wanted here." Todd walked away, a hand on his sword in case of an attack. Clive looked calm on the outside, but on the inside he was seething with far too many emotions.

__

… If I am not Mr. Winslett, then who am I? I remember him, I remember all his thoughts and actions, and that not too long ago we were once the same person. Am I just a monster now? Is this… is this what monsters feel like when they are left all alone? It makes me feel like I want to hurt somebody, or anybody… just like what a full-blooded monster would have done…

"Right, right." Clive said to nobody, starting to walk in the opposite direction to where Todd was heading. His voice was incredibly calm and nonchalant compared to the wounded cry of his own inner voice, to protect himself from his own pain. Still unarmed, he began his walk into the mountains again, hoping to the Guardians that this was the correct direction. "I should not kid myself about this, the others will be unable to find anything to help me, even if I do rescue Kaitlyn and bring her home. It does not matter, I will remain a monster either way. I may as well… get used to it." He sighed deeply, feeling more than ever his own metallic weight, "Who knows? Perhaps it shall not be so bad…"

__

Catherine… How will you be able to love me now? You cannot love me… You will hate me, be disgusted with me… and now I am alone…

I will always… be alone.

He almost tripped again, over the same stupid obstacle that had hindered him during the morning. He was getting used to _that _as well, it would be the easy part. The hardest part, what he knew to be completely and utterly true, was the concept of probably never seeing any of his friends or family ever again. Hell, Todd was right, drifters were _hired _to kill monsters like him, just like that wolf creature he had slain only a few days ago. If fate had a hand in his miserable life's chances, it would mostly likely be that Virginia and the others would end up hunting and killing _him_. Well, Clive didn't mind that, it would be one less demon to worry about, and then the race would finally be extinct.

And Filgaia could be happy again. It was all that Clive wanted. If not for himself, he just wanted the others to be happy. Despite all the friends and loved ones he had, Clive had somehow convinced himself that nobody would miss him when he died. Who would miss a monster, anyway?

Understanding this, he smiled.


	52. Destrado, Love Is Destructive

The three bandits were charged with keeping Kaitlyn out of trouble, no matter how much they disliked the idea. The main chamber of the shrine was soon made their base camp, because of it's size and closeness to the general exit. The little girl was making things easy for them by not doing anything in the least bit disturbing, just sitting quietly in a corner slotting shards of a broken tablet together, in the hopes of formulating the broken pieces of rock into their original state. It was like watching somebody put a five thousand piece jigsaw puzzle together. Dario had practically fallen asleep, catching up on a snooze he had never gotten to finish the night before. Ravendor woke him up far too early.

Speaking of their boss, the man was nowhere to be found, slipping away into the shadows with a few instructions left to Antonio, the foreign bandit just emerging from the mouth of a long corridor, dusting off his hands. He had an open bottle of alcohol in one, the other hand brushing back his thick curly locks. He was grinning, stepping over the nearly comatose Dario and making his way over to Romero, the blonde ninja staring off into space. "¡Hola!" He called to get his attention, sauntering up to the quietly brooding man and sitting down beside him, "What you think about, huh? You look troubled. Tell 'Tonio, he always know what to do."

Romero sighed, watching Kaitlyn try and fit two pieces of stone together. "You know where the Boss went?" He asked, flicking a small pebble away with two fingers. Antonio was blank for about a second, then offered his bottle of alcohol to the younger bandit, which was accepted gratefully. Romero took a long pull at it before taking a breath, somehow anxious on the inside. "It's just that… well, I don't think I should've taken this job. I'm getting a bad feeling, or something. Maybe it's 'cause we're in a Guardian shrine, but I keep thinkin' that something big is being hidden from us, you know? And the Boss…" He trailed off for a few thoughtful seconds, looking at the label on his bottle, "I only just noticed this, but there's something just _wrong_ about him. Y'know, like the difference between a real gella coin and a fake one?"

"You think he be fake?" Antonio assumed, a hand on his chin. Romero was sharper than the foreign bandit would have thought, he was picking up on things much quicker than he had absently guessed. He tapped Romero on the shoulder comfortingly and glanced at Kaitlyn, who was still far out of harm's way. "He no fake," The small man said with a little reservation "He is good amigo, just a little weird." A pebble fell from the ceiling and landed nearby, close to a small underground stream that was filled with pitch black water. Antonio looked down. "Siempre está triste." He explained simply, then shrugged.

"I think I prefer Janus, though. Even if he _did_ double-cross me an' Dario, at least we knew about most of the shit goin' on." Romero replied, handing the bottle back to Antonio. "I'll be happy when all of this is over." Without much thought, he hurled a small rock over to Dario, where it struck him in the face and didn't budge him an inch. All he did was roll over and begin to snore. 

Antonio got up. "I go for walk." He announced, "I be here before, there be many, _many_ miles of tunnel around in shrine. You no go too far, or you be lost. Stay with the chica, I be back soon." He frowned as he walked away, banishing it long enough to smile and wink at Kaitlyn. Antonio may have seemed cheerful and slightly dumb to others, but that was just his dyslexia getting in the way. The ninja was a _lot_ more cognitive of the world around him. The bandit snorted, directing his thoughts inwards.

__

This is the last thing we need, the others to be getting suspicious… Where did the Boss go, anyway? I'll have to search for him. Poor Romero, he will end up in the worst predicaments if he doesn't learn to keep his big mouth shut, and even worse than that, why the hell does he seem so adamant to be alone with Kaitlyn…?

The answer presented itself, and Antonio groaned.

__

That damned pervert! Dario had better stay on his toes, for that girl's sake, eh? In fact, change her hair colour a little bit and she **does** look a little like Carolyn… Poor Dario, he probably doesn't even see through the resemblance, the silly oaf…

He slipped into a shadow, disappearing.

__

If the Boss is sick again, there will be hell to pay… and seriously, **literal** Hell…Antonio remembered that last time Ravendor had lost control, and, well… He still had nightmares about it sometimes. The other bandits were ignorant, but Antonio knew far too much. 

xxx

The bucket was wooden and watertight, sealed up with a mixture of tar and other chemicals, reinforced with a band of metal around the base and near the rim. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but suitable enough to get the job done. It slowly filled with clear bubbling water as it was immersed in the underground spring, the liquid icy cold and dark from the lack of light, but pure and capable of being drunk. It grew heavy with the weight of the water and he lifted it with a bit of effort, the wood now dampened and glistening. Ravendor could see his reflection in it, just barely.

He had discarded his jacket, shirt and boots at the edge of the water reservoir, and now he was immersed waist-deep in the frosty pool, left alone to do some very important thinking. He trusted the others with Kaitlyn for now, but at the moment, all he wanted to be right now was alone. 

Raising the bucket, he tipped the contents over his head and felt the refreshing water spill all over him, washing away the partially dried blood from his agitated injuries. It ran down his face and through his hair, the chill numbing out the small shocks of continuos pain. Well, at least he had stopped bleeding so far, he could be thankful for that, but this only meant that it would get worse soon enough.

His gloves lay alongside most of his clothing, leaving his hands bare, but still hidden under the watery depths. Raising them, the black leather of his gloves no longer hid a mutilating scar that extended along the entire length of his palm, staring at the wrist and moving all the way in a diagonal direction across his hand, ending in a rough gash between his thumb and index finger, cutting his life line in half. It was a knife wound, and very, _very_ old. This was the reason that Ravendor always wore gloves, to hide the scar that spoke of his own wish for self-destruction. It had been a while since he had thought so deeply about it, but the fact that Clive had come back into his life again made it no easier to forget.

__

I remember, long ago. I was a very sad and lonely person, where the days were just as bleak as the night. I felt as though people talked around and through me, as if I was already a ghost whom nobody could detect. I wanted to die, I did not wish to exist anymore, and I knew that the world would be a happier place if I were to be wiped out of existence forever. Water droplets ran through the cracks between his fingers, creating ripples in the frosty pool below. Ravendor's eyes were focussed, his voice soft. He spoke only to the walls and air around him. _Not much… has changed. I may have a different purpose now, but my goal will always be the same…_

"Kaitlyn…" Ravendor breathed, stepping out of the water, "If you saw me again, I would not be recognized. But that does not matter… only… revenge… Would you… know who I am?"

The only reply he got was the burning of his injuries, and making sure that nobody else was around, he spat on the ground and cursed, not the world, not Clive, but himself. Another curse to add to his collection…

xxx

The bullets came loose from their clip with only a hushed scraping sound, metal sliding coolly against metal, reflecting the light of the pale moon and stars. The night was still dark, even with those comforts, and it hid all the things that wished not to be seen. Ravendor was one of them, standing upon a crumbled decrepit staircase that led to nowhere, except a fifty-foot drop to a cluster of jagged rocks below. It used to be a beautiful stone chapel, carved with divine and heavenly insignia, a site of worship long ago. Now, except for a few statues and choice chunks of foundation, just a skeleton remained. Only a cliff, a dead ruin, and a destroyed soul. Ravendor's life was a ruin, and he wanted it to end.

He had climbed the staircase like he was already half-asleep, his loaded pistol in one hand, and a sharpened knife in the other. It did not really belong to him, but Clive had not noticed it's absence, for he was already preoccupied with other trivial things. He had written a note and left it where the knife was supposed to be, hopefully, the last thing he would ever have to write. Ravendor didn't need to sharpen the blade, Clive took good care of it anyway, not even the slightest speck of dust existing on the edge. It would be _perfect_ for his uses.

The remaining parts of the broken foundation were embroidered with images of floating cherubim amongst a floral design, meant to be cheerful and happy, but now just an addition that held no meaning. He had dressed warmly because the air was slightly chill, but did not really have to worry about catching a cold too much, assuming that his plan would carry out correctly. Almost business-like, he exposed one of his wrists and brandished the knife, preparing himself.

It was strangely painless, he thought after a few moments, as the razor edge of the knife pierced the soft translucent skin upon his wrist. Only the tip cut through, manipulating it carefully and drawing it downward along his arm, grazing the vital veins and allowing the blood to bead around the cut. This was a stress relief, and the colour of the leaking blood seemed so pretty to his eyes, a vibrant lively red, pouring down his arm. A few moments passed, and he began to feel the impact of his actions, a small sting beginning to manifest in his system. It was small, however, and easily ignored. It was worth it to see his life drain away, departing, in liquid form.

Losing a bit of feeling in the damaged arm, Ravendor holstered his ARM and switched the blade to his other hand, having to forcefully tighten the grip on the knife because his nerves were going dead. His face expressionless, he carved a similar wound onto his left wrist, seeing a small stream of his blood slide down the edge of the knife and collect at the handle, catching the moonlight and stars. He would bleed himself nearly dry before consummating his plan, his blood bore guilt, and the genetic pattern of his family line, one that he had never wanted. The blood of the immoral duke flowed through his veins, and if he wanted to die with peace, he would have to remove that stain of sin first. He smiled, but the smile immediately faded, though, and he was left to wonder at the ruinous turns his life had taken. How had it happened that he, who was meant to be a duke and live above his fellow man, was now left homeless, loveless, a refugee in an unfeeling planet, allowed to remain only at the sufferance of his gang leader? Allowed to remain only as long as Clive Winslett saw fit? 

He was a Begucci, he was a nobleman, he was… nothing.

A warm breeze caressed his cheek as he held both his arms over the precipice in front of him, the falling drops of blood spilling down to a surface too far away to be seen, carried a little by the wind. This was where the chapel's altar used to be, but due to neglect and soil erosion, only the small part Ravendor was standing on remained. He was sacrificing his blood to a shrine that no longer existed, praying to a Guardian that was no longer there. That was fine with him, he didn't really _want_ anything anyway, just an ending. And the only force capable of offering that to him was just the pure nothingness, nonexistence itself. This would be over soon.

He checked the clip in his revolver, six separate canisters that had been emptied of it's rounds, lying in a scattered pile at his feet. Kneeling for a short while, he carefully picked up one of the rounds, the bullet rolling placidly into the center of his palm and picking up a small smear of blood, the coppery metal it was made of contrasting with the red. The bullet slipped with lubricated ease into the clip of his ARM again, the blood helping a little in it's entry. There, the gun was loaded for one shot, and, he spun the clip in his revolver randomly, snapping it shut after counting to three, he now had a one in six chance that the weapon would properly fire. Knowing this, he held the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation, sighing.

__

Shot one. The first time I saw you, you were crying over the bodies of your parents in the wreckage of a burning carriage. You were sad, and I was there to help, but, no longer…

The Peacemaker only made a hollow clinking noise next to his ear, indicating that the bullet canister was empty. Well, no matter. He could play this game of Russian Roulette all night if he had to, eventually, the law of probability would have him killed. Ravendor was beginning to feel slightly dizzy from the steady lack of blood, so he sped things up a bit by picking up another bullet and inserting it, again slotting it randomly into his clip and spinning it once more. The chances had been raised, now there was a two in six chance that he would die. This was strangely fun.

Looking down into the wide gap of nothingness in front of him, Ravendor could easily predict his fate. The gun would fire, he would lose his head, and the body would topple from this perch onto the sharp rocks below, alongside all the blood he had already lost. Nobody would find his corpse, or even _search_ for it, he was technically an orphan already, his parents presumed him dead, so why not make that lie into a truth? He didn't have a future, without Seraph, there _was_ no future. She was dead, and so was he. Squeezing the trigger, he tried again.

__

Shot two. I remember when you were healthy, we got lost in a cornfield outside of the town, and it took hours just to find each other, even though we were following the sound of our own voices. You were laughing then, you were happy…And, so was I.

The sound was the same, empty, ambient, lacking. Lowering the weapon, he cursed and wiped at his face, leaving a trail of his own blood upon his cheek. The dripping fluid that was slowly staining the sleeves of his white jacket red were pooling on the ground at his feet, creating a puddle that nearly held his reflection. It had consumed the rest of his bullets, so he fished around in his own blood until he found a new one again, wiping the liquid away on his clothing and adding it to his game of roulette. It was three against three, a fifty percent chance now, this would probably be the last try. With a languid motion, he pressed the end of his ARM against his forehead now, brushing aside his fringe of black hair. Biting his lip and closing his eyes, he readied himself. His arms were nearly numb, the cold was seeping into his body, gaining dizziness from the blood loss… The hand of death was only seconds away. Slowly, he began to pressure the trigger, and… 

__

Shot three. On the last day of your life, you escaped from your deathbed to die alone and unburden us with our grief, but I searched, and found you anyway. You were here, on this very altar, and with your last words you confessed that you did not want to leave… You cried, but at the same time, you smiled. I… do not understand…

Some things were not made to be understood.

"Swanky!" Clive cried, feeling his heart tighten in relief and fear. 

Ravendor paused, opening one eye. He recognized that voice, and it was not welcome at all. Turning slowly, the ends of his jacket getting stained by his blood, he lowered his revolver and looked down upon the boy at the foot of the staircase, wondering how he had gotten here. He message had not detailed exactly where he was going to be, how in the world did Clive know? Ravendor narrowed his eyes and took a small step further towards the cliff. "What do you want?" He asked with irritation, going a little tense.

Clive kept his distance, he didn't want to provoke Ravendor into doing something foolish, and he was _already_ much too close to the precipice for comfort. The younger boy had one hand shoved in his pocket, while the other was balled into a fist, shaking by his side. In it was the note Ravendor had left at their hideout, discovered much too quickly. Unsure of what he should do or say, he shot blindly into the dark, trying out his best convincing voice. "S-swanky… What are you doing?" He asked, then suddenly wanted to take back the words, they were stupid and totally useless.

The teenager standing upon the altar drastically changed the subject, gripping Clive's knife with his free hand and touching it to the hollow of his throat, then slowly trailed the tip across so that it didn't draw blood, but only left a white mark of it's movement. Had he placed a little more pressure over the instrument, he would have slit his own throat. "Seven years ago we met, didn't we? At first, we were poised to kill each other, but then we rapidly became friends. You let me into your gang so that I would have a home to live in, and in doing so, I met Kaitlyn. Why did you do that?" 

The green-haired boy hung his head, but he also took a step forward, ascending up one stair. Ravendor noticed this and moved a little further away, but this was as far as he could go without falling. "I can't answer that," Clive said sadly, feeling a heavy pressure on his small chest, "I was six years old and I was stupid. I saw that you needed help and so I wanted to help, that was just they way I used to think. I still try to be like that, sometimes. Ravendor," He was beyond serious, Clive hardly ever used Ravendor's real name, "Please step away from the cliff. Don't hurt yourself like this…"

He shook his head. "Go away, Clive." Ravendor said faintly, indecisively sheathing his borrowed knife in an inner pocket of his white jacket. "Go back to your gang, go back to Catherine and the others. Go back to your Professor and your studies. Go back and become a drifter and an archaeologist, make yourself a happy future. _My_ future is here, with this cliff, this gun and this destroyed chapel. I do not want to see you anymore. I do not want to see, or _know_ anybody or anything. It is tiring, _I_ am tiring…"

Clive stood with his head down, his arms hanging limply by his sides. If there was _anything_ he could do to convince Ravendor to step away from that cliff, he would have gladly done it. "You're my best friend, you know," He admitted sincerely, "And I am only a worthless orphan. Because of this, it means that my friends are automatically my family. If you die, then I'll be just an orphan again." His words became more frantic. "It hurt when Kaitlyn died, I don't wanna have to bury you as well! I don't wanna lose another brother or sister!" As quickly as that, Clive lost nearly all of his drive. "One is… enough…" He sighed.

For a moment, the blank mask Ravendor was wearing flickered, revealing green eyes immersed in pain, and, trembling behind that, something that almost seemed to be fear. "Go away, Clive." He whispered again, his voice rasping slightly. "Leave me alone and let me finish this." For long minutes Ravendor was still and silent, not moving from his position or looking away from the ground. Then his hand came up to cover his eyes, the other supporting his elbow, and an odd noise came from him that Clive recognized as a painfully stifled sob.

The younger boy chose this time to act, climbing up the stone staircase and pausing less than a foot away from Ravendor, his breath fogging up around his face whenever he breathed. Ravendor was doing it too, but it was more irregular, like he was holding back pent-up emotion. "Don't do this, Ravendor," Clive said quietly, "There's another way. Don't end it like this." He looked at all the blood staining his older brother's clothing and winced at the self-inflicted wounds he had made, wondering how on Filgaia he could have done such a thing. "You still have so much to live for…"

Ravendor's head lifted and he glared at Clive, his angry eyes shining with tears. "And how the fuck would _you_ know?!" He hissed, his hand tightening on the gun that was still loaded. "Do you think you _know_ me?! Do you think you can even _help_ me?! Do not make me laugh! You will _never_ understand what I have lived through!" There was still so much, so much pain that he wanted to forget… And death, it was the big erasure… 

Taking a chance, Clive struck wildly at Ravendor's heart. "Would Kaitlyn _want_ you to end everything like this?" He asked carefully.

Clive suddenly had the end of Ravendor's Peacemaker pressed into his stomach, though he was still unsure if it would fire or not. He hoped, he _prayed_ that it would. No fury on Filgaia could have matched the amount contained within his bright green eyes, and he gritted his teeth so tightly that it was nearly painful. "I will kill you, you fool!" He yelled, his hand shaking. "Guardians, if only I had killed you that day we first met! I would still be as miserable and worthless as I am now, but at least I wouldn't know it! I wouldn't see it! _I wouldn't have known what I was missing!_" He'd have never met Kaitlyn, he would have never lost her, and then, he would never have to feel this endless pain. It was all Clive's fault!

"…If you hadn't met her, or stayed with her, Kaitlyn would have died all alone. It was because of you that she lived so long, Swanky, I think you made her happy. I think that was all she wanted. I know I'm not as smart as you, but Kaitlyn would have wanted you to be happy as well."

Ravendor shook his head and struggled briefly before sobbing again. "I cannot stand... to look at myself…" He wept, his tears hot and bitter, streaming down his cheeks. "Gods!" He screamed suddenly, his head tipping backward as he howled at the night sky, "How could this have happened to me?! How could I have let it happen?! How could _you_ let it happen?! Why am I so _weak_?!"

"I know you're not weak, Ravendor!" Clive shouted, raising his voice to get through to the other boy. "You're strong! You've made it this far! Everything's been against you but you've managed to evade death for _sixteen fucking years_! Don't give in now…"

Suddenly all fight went out of him and he trembled terribly, hardly even holding himself up. "Let me die, Clive." Ravendor whispered, staring dully at nothing. "I'm so tired of everything. How can I go on living everyday with nothing to look forward to?" His voice was becoming strained. "I never thought that it would be this way. I'm ruined, and I have destroyed myself. I wanted to be able to stand on my own, to be whoever I wanted to be, so that what the duke did… When he got drunk and liked to beat me... It was so many... times..." They all had a sordid past, it was natural in a town like Little Twister, but to Ravendor it only made him feel all the more unclean. "You must think this is funny…" He said after awhile, still holding his ARM up against Clive's stomach, "That is why… this is the only way…"

His hand moved fast, and Clive was all of a sudden holding his hand over the top part of the revolver's barrel, trying to gain a better grip on it. However, he pushed the ARM further into his stomach, his smile sadly mocking. "Kill yourself, then." He said without emotion, "Go ahead, but you will have to kill me first." He tried to smile, but the result came out all wrong, "You said you wanted to, now do it. Afterwards, finish yourself off."

Ravendor bowed his head for a moment, though he didn't move the gun or pressure the trigger. "Gods damn you, Clive! You know I can't!" He half-sobbed, his voice harsh with tears. Clive slowly closed his eyes, continuing to hold the gun near him so Ravendor could not use it on himself, and waited to see if it would fire. Against him, it never did.

But the older boy _did_ take another step back, and instead of meeting another stone part of the floor, his foot touched nothing except for a wide expanse of air. He had backed up over the edge. Clive felt a force pull the revolver away and he immediately opened his eyes, choking out a startled gasp when he saw Ravendor struggling to keep his balance before he had a chance to tumble off. The motion forced Clive to let go and grab for one of the older boy's hands, but he remember the wounds on his wrists and snatched at Ravendor's shirt, trying to hold on. It was difficult, for his age, Clive was not particularly strong.

His hand grazed the inner pocket of Ravendor's coat and without even thinking he had his knife out again, stained with the already drying streaks of the older boy's blood. Ravendor still had his hand upon the trigger, but he was too preoccupied with falling to notice this danger, and the gun could easily go off and hit either of them. Clive knew what he had to do, he needed to disarm him, before it became too late. Shifting the knife into the palm of his unburdened hand, Clive located the hand bearing the revolver and swiped at it, nearly hearing in slow motion the reverberating clang as the ARM was knocked away and up into the air. Ravendor screamed, and blood began to flow horribly from his hand, Clive had accidentally cut far too deeply.

Clive threw himself backwards and used his own weight to drag both of them back onto the staircase, and Ravendor grabbed blindly for his ARM, raking the air with bloodied fingers, and then touching metal, but it bounced out of his aching palm and went off, a cracking sound indicating that the gun had been _loaded_ this time. If Clive had not stopped him, Ravendor would have finally died on shot three.

The dark-haired boy heard the sickly sound of meat being struck by a high speed object, then his fired weapon hitting the ground with finality, the end of the barrel smoking contentedly. He heard Clive gasp, and then groan, struggling to stand and then hitting the floor on his side, whereas Ravendor slipped and struck his head against a chunk of eroded foundation, being smitten dumb by a temporary loss of his senses.

Time flowed, but it could have been a mere few seconds, or perhaps even an hour as Ravendor came to again, feeling a sticky and stinging sensation as blood from a cut to his face dripped down into one of his eyes, and his right hand twitched feebly, the nerves slightly damaged from Clive's quick maneuver. He felt like he wanted to throw up, but pushed himself to his feet and brushed the fringe out of his eyes, cursing quietly. So much for his plan. He was stained with blood and tears, swaying slightly, he wondered if it would all ever end. Tensing, Ravendor heard a groan.

Clive was lying in a puddle of his own blood, the breath emerging from his body bearing a rasping whistling quality, taken deeply, and he twitched a little as he tried to weakly move his arm, which was torn open by a wayward bullet wound. He had lost far too much blood, and Ravendor cursed.

__

He tried to save my life, the idiot, and now he is injured… This is all my fault…

The dark-haired boy picked up his gun and opened the clip one last time, setting it so that it would fire again properly. Breathing in deeply, he held it to his head again, he could at least get _this_ part of his plan done…

"S-s-s-swanky… don't do it, for the Guardian's sakes, please don't do it…" Clive whimpered, struggling to get up.

Ravendor paused, looked at the gun, and then dropped it. Cursing again most profusely, he turned, regretting everything, and then ran to get help.

He would have to die another day.


	53. The Taming Of Hasufel

Catherine surveyed the unfamiliar series of objects placed in a neat line along the hastily set-up workbench, dismayed by her general lack of knowledge on what exactly to do. Both Halle and Shane were on either side of her, and Gallows slept peacefully behind them on the grass woven beds beyond the stairs. The bench had a wide hole in the center, positioned above the licking orange tongues of flame emanating from the fire, allowing the warming waves of heat to permeate through a small wire mesh, stretched across the circle. 

A medium-sized ceramic cup was placed upon the mesh and heated well, the design on the pottery one of the traditional Baskar culture. Uncertainly, Catherine raised a small vial filled with a light blue liquid and poured it in, mixing it with the water already inside and providing a suitable base. Watered down well, the amount of ambrosia in the cup increased moderately.

"This will provide an appropriate foundation to the antidote." Shane explained as Catherine began to stir the mixture quietly. "Ambrosia has neither an acidic nor an alkaline structure, so it draws equally and will not interfere with the other ingredients. Also, the healing qualities of the ambrosia should help him to heal any injuries, in case you find him hurt." The smell of the ambrosia filled the room, whole, nourishing and invigorating in the air. Shane momentarily turned in Gallows's direction, hearing his older brother groan weakly upstairs. Even in a gaseous form, the elixir still seemed to have a slight rousing effect on the wounded Baskar.

Catherine placed the empty vial back on the table and picked up another one, this tiny flask far smaller and hardly containing any more than a few drops of clear liquid. Halle guessed what she was thinking, taking the liberty to speak. "Take extra special care when handling that chemical, dearie. That is _curare_, and it is practically a deadly poison." Catherine slowly lowered the bottle back onto the table as she heard this, opening her mouth to say something, but being sharply cut off by Halle continuing. "Curare is a paralyzer that freezes the muscles, and in larger doses, the heart and lungs too. It can kill, but when used in the right amount, it's a very good tranquilizer." 

She tapped her wooden cane on the ground, thinking steadily. "This antidote will put the lycanthrope through an intense amount of pain, a sudden and vicious withdrawal that will nearly be as bad as one receding from a drug addiction." Catherine closed her eyes as Halle talked, her fingers pressing down lightly on the tabletop. "The tranquilizer should stop him from hurting himself during the process. You only add one drop, though. Only one drop will do."

Reluctantly, Catherine held the vial over the ceramic cup and forced her hands to stop shaking just long enough to measure out one clear shining drop of curare, the fluid falling into the concoction and seeping away on impact. No outward reaction in the liquid was made by the addition, it still simmered without interruption. Curare, a poison. They were going to give him poison…

Shane passed her three leaves from the Arnica plant, thick and full of chlorophyllic juice. The rest of the rare herb had been potted courtesy of Halle, sitting serenely on the windowsill, blue petals of the flowering plant standing out like expensive velvet in the sun. The soil was damp, somebody had recently watered it, the rest of it's dark green foliage having beads of crystal-like water softly down. Catherine let go of the severed leaves, watching them dissolve nearly instantly, fizzling away. The smell in the air changed, gaining a biting quality, a powerful smell of herbs.

The woman didn't speak, just allowing the other Baskar and the colonies elder to tell her what to do. She felt like she was only an automaton doing a required task, and a sad presence in her mind made it hard to pay any attention to the other people's words. Maybe it was the mention of a withdrawal, she had never even _considered_ anything like that. Catherine had seen things like that before, even though her father had tried his hardest to shield her from the knowledge, drugs and Little Twister went hand in hand. But, even so, the thought of Clive screaming out his agony in the midst of chemical recession just hurt. Not only a mental, but a physical hurt.

She finally looked down to her work and realised that she had been doing something even as she thought, now grinding up a hard, yet slightly brittle substance that was a dull grey in color with a mortar and pestle, pulverizing it into a fine powder. "What is this?" She asked, stopping for a few seconds to shake the tension out of her wrist.

"It's a weak compound that mostly has traces of silver and simpler materials, grind it up well and add it to the antidote. I'm going to go and find that sample of mandrake my idiot grandson has misplaced… Shane, make sure she does everything right for me, lad?" The youth nodded and Halle hobbled out of the house, heading for the colonies storeroom. Gallows groaned again for seemingly no reason whatsoever, rolling off the bed and landing on the floor. He did not get up again, and fell right back into his sleep. Shane moved to go and fix up that problem, but Catherine meekly held him back, murmuring quietly about needing to talk to him about something.

"I… forgot to mention part of my dream to you this morning," She said nervously, "It had been bothering me a little, even more so than what I have already told you, Shane." The woman set the tools down onto the table and watched what looked like a thick blue soup simmer in the cup, every now and then, small piece of arnica herb poking up from the powerful-smelling broth. "After that first dream, I heard somebody talking in my mind, and the voice was somebody I knew _very_ well. It was my own, telling me things I did not understand. I still don't comprehend the words, even now."

"I was thinking about that a little while ago." Shane admitted in a comforting tone. "I wonder, do you think you might have any Baskar blood in your ancestry, Catherine? How much do you know of your family tree? Because, what you have described to me sounds an awful lot like the visions of a far seer, and they are usually recurring in a family line…"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. Both sides of my family have been Eastern Highlanders for as far back as anyone can remember. No, I believe this is just my, well… It will sound cheesy when I say it… But I think I know what Clive is going through, and it is making me know mysterious things as well." She rubbed her wrists. "Last evening, my left wrist started to hurt and I didn't understand why, and I became short of breath for a while. He must have been hurt… that could be the only way…"

"An empathetic connection?" Shane guessed. "Tell me your dream, please." The woman took a small breath of the ambrosia mixed with the air, and began. It gave her more conviction to continue, and made it easier to remember the words. She could not help but to half-sing out the verse, it was made to be chanted and not spoken, though she was not very confident on her voice at all. Shane listened without interruption.

__

"When every hope is darkened,  
And hate is pitted against hate  
Where guilt and repentance are one  
Past and present will mingle to create a conflicted unity  
Look not to that which can be abhorred  
Cling to your convictions  
Hold onto the contents of your heart  
For is a beast not also a man?  
And is a man not also a beast?  
The stray bird with his wings stained black  
Will tear open inner wounds to find the way  
To seek forgiveness from the wounded and hurt  
When the hands of a child shall set him free."

"Yes." Catherine agreed, nodding after she was done. "And now, I remember this verse. It is almost like a poem without rhymes in the way it was spoken, but the voice, _my_ voice, in the dream, it sounded all wrong, like I was talking from a very far away place, and I had been weeping. I hate these nightmares, I just want them to end. I want," She sniffed, "I want Kaitlyn and Clive back… I want to know… why… Ravendor is doing this… to me…" Slowly, she sunk to her knees, pressing her hands over her face and beginning to cry once more. Shane knelt down with her, and wondered what on Filgaia he could do to help.

He was stunned when Gallows was suddenly there and ready to help, gingerly taking Catherine by the shoulders and hauling her up to her feet, leading the poor woman up the stairs to where he had been previously lying down, knowing that she would need some time to be alone. Heading back to where Shane waited, he took the antidote off the fire so the liquid would not boil away, and then yawned, stretched his arms and hearing the vertebrae in his neck crack as he loosened the tension out of it. "I missed a lot, didn't I?" He said. "But I was listening as well, so I think I'm pretty much up-to-speed. Until Ginny and his assholiness return with the rest of the ingredients, and good ol' Granny hobbles back with mandrake too, we might as well relax, then, eh?"

Shane ignored him, meditating on the meaning of Catherine's newest dream. It sounded like a prediction, one that appeared to be sealed with a bleak outcome. Without much outward thought, the youth sat down on the floor, and set his hands into his lap, this next cryptic conundrum would be so much more difficult to crack. 

xxx

As Clive stepped into the spacious area between a long sloping path on either side, beside a steeping mound of rocks that rose far above his height and coated the small clearing in a shadow, he became distinctly aware of the significance of this place without any viable source. It was a quarry that stood on top of a huge hill, but it was also much more than that. Crouching and gathering his bearings, Clive made a crude guess that this was where the bandits had stopped for the night, resolving to check out the area thoroughly for clues.

It had been a long time since he had departed from the Schrodinger camp, distant in his thoughts, just an unneeded part of a useless memory. The past was only the past, trivial and no match for the importance of the present. Clive's eyes were hard and strangely different, he no longer spoke to himself out loud, reserving the effort of speech for when he really needed it the most. All alone, where he had no other humans to interact with, it was becoming all too easy to forget how to remain one. Clive pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and placed three fingers onto the outline of a footprint, drawing a line along the side so he could measure properly. The owner of the footprint must have been small, unusually small, but the design of the shoe itself was for that of a fully grown adult male. Each footprint was spaced abnormally from each other, as if the person had a slight ambidexterity to his movements. It was quite curious.

__

… Not Kaitlyn and not Ravendor… Smells like a bandit…

He walked carefully beside the footprints so as not to distort them, following the tracks to see where they would lead. They could have been made at any time, seeing how it hardly ever rained and nothing was around to destroy evidence, Clive estimated that they could have been from anywhere to an hour, or even a week old. They _smelt_ relatively new, so he settled on a compromise between the two, roughly guessing an age of about six or seven hours, made early this morning. Clive smiled, though it was more like a flashing of teeth and fang, satisfied. He was rapidly catching up.

__

… Bandit… I will kill you when I find you… I will rend you limb from limb… I will bleed you dry so the ground turns red… And allow your comrades to join you without any hesitation on my part… If you have hurt Kaitlyn… you will wish for death before I am done with you…

A small part of his old self came back, and he frowned.

__

No, I am **not** a murderer! I am not who you are making me out to be, I hate to see blood spilt, I do not want to hurt anybody… I just want this to end… I am Clive Winslett, not a monster! Not a demon!

But he knew he was lying, and it upset him greatly, squeezing one fist shut in repressed anger. He hardly ever got this angry, what was _wrong_ with him? Clive smelt black smoke and paused at the remains of a used campfire, dirt and gravel thrown over the ashes to completely snuff out the fire. A tiny little tendril of the smoke remained, though, and it spiralled up slowly into the air. Some rocks were ringed around the soot and were most likely used as seats by the bandit team, one of them had the ricochet marks of a deflected bullet scraped across it's surface. The scent was that of alcohol and horribly cooked food, it was definitely them, alright.

Searching a little further around the small campsite, Clive stopped and knelt over a few intriguing marks on the ground, not too far away from where the campfire used to be. They were made up of a dried crimson fluid and smelt incredibly sweet and sickening, almost like blood, but not quite. It reminded Clive of when he and the Maxwell team had gone up against the prophets, after a victorious fight, the air had faintly reeked of this same smell as well. Bloodstains, markings of imitation blood, a forgery of something real. What was a spilt amount of panakeia doing in such a place?

He sat down in front of it, confused. Placing a hand on the ground nearby, his fingers touched the softness of something underneath them, and scooped up the object with a small amount of dirt and shook the dust away, leaving only the item left. It was a small feather, slightly matted with the dried panakeia substance and blood. Clive finally spoke, thinking out loud and taking the other feather he had acquired yesterday from Kestorael, pulling it from his pocket. He placed the two against each other, making a comparison. "This makes me feel uneasy… I know, this is similar. Too similar. Panakeia is imitation demon blood, and a bearer of the substance is a travesty of the demon race. It is not… correct…" He murmured, unnerved.

The smaller feather was unlike Kestorael's one, darker and strangely heavier than a proper feather should be. Getting an idea, Clive bit into his index finger with his fangs and drew a small amount of his own blood, still as black and as slick as sandcraft oil. The blood he had found and the blood trickling out of his own body were remarkably alike, except that his was thick, concentrated and oozed subliminal power, while the other was thin and diluted, a little degenerated and foul. Whoever owned this blood was not a very well person at all, Clive could easily see that. Vaguely, he wished that he was far away from here, this site was like a curse upon his mind.

Suddenly feeling a little dizzy for a reason he could not fathom, Clive leaned forward and gently hit the ground on his stomach, getting a horrible stab of pain in his chest. The panakeia smell was nearly poisonous to his body, the strange queasiness and pain taking him over for a short while. He gasped, biting down on his lip and trying to push himself back up, until he heard the most bizarre vibration coming up from the rocks underneath him, rhythmical and steady. Once, he had heard that intensely experienced trackers could detect motion from miles away by the vibrations in the ground, now he no longer doubted that myth. Pushing himself up after the dizziness had faded, Clive recognized the sound and awaited the arrival, hands on his knees and sitting down carefully, closing his eyes. He could hear hooves thundering not too far away, the sound now manifesting in the airwaves around him. 

Hearing a whinny, Clive looked up, and was generally surprised. Hasufel had come to a stop a short distance away, the dark brown stallion pawing the ground and snorting. How in the world did his very own horse manage to come to him, even when Clive had not called? It was _greatly_ welcomed, for he could use every bit of boosted speed possible. Reaching the mountains would be child's play on horseback.

The metal demon climbed to his feet and took a step forward, not too surprised when Hasufel decided to take another one back to even the distance apart. Before, during the time that seemed almost a million years ago, he had been puzzled over the stallion's eccentric behavior, but now, Clive knew the exact reason why and commended the animal for taking the best course of action. If _he_ were Hasufel, he would have run from the foul demon too. However, Clive needed the ride and advanced forward again, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. "Please, Hasufel." He said soothingly. "I will not hurt you. I am your Master, remember? Don't run away…"

Clive was paralyzed with shock when he suddenly heard a voice, different from the ones most recently taking up residency inside his head. **_Stay away… You smell of death… Reek of blood… Carnivore and horse-killer… leave me be…_**

Was that… Hasufel's voice? No, Clive could hear no words being spoken, but he could somehow sense a train of thought directed at his spirit, and either the curse of something else translated the information into something he could understand. Self-consciously, he realized that his coat was stained with the blood of the Claiborne horses and sighed, submitting to the truth. "I did… I _did_ kill them. Hasufel… I am sorry…"

… _Here I am, apologizing to a horse… I **am** crazy…_

"But…" Clive continued, pleading his case. "I _need_ your speed to rescue my daughter. You have every right to hate me for what I have done, but you cannot deny me the chance I have been looking for to save her life. No innocent creature of the gods could do such a thing… Hasufel, please. I will only ask this one time, and then you will never have to take commands from me again. I promise."

**__**

… Your daughter is the human female with blonde hair…? Hasufel asked, his resolve wavering. He remembered her from the times when Clive had tried to teach her to ride horses, at the girl's personal request. The little laughing girl, who seemed so happy…

"Yes." The demon replied. "That is her."

**__**

… I will bear your body to the mountains and beyond, horse-killer, and then you will never come near me again… Not for your sake, I wish you the same fate bestowed upon my brothers and sisters, but for the sake of the little one…

"I know…" Clive whispered sadly to himself, walking over to the side of the mount, the animal now standing perfectly still. "So do I."

Hasufel was neither tacked nor bore any restraining equipment along his body, making it a little bit difficult for Clive to properly hoist himself up, and the way the horse moved about uncertainly made it even harder. Carefully winding his fingers and taking a fistful of mane, he swung himself onto Hasufel's back and noted how it was so much easier for him to fall off now without the aid of a saddle. He knew that most Baskars preferred to ride bareback most of the time, but Clive was certainly _not_ a Baskar, or even a very good horseback rider. He wished that Gallows or somebody else was around to give him a few pointers.

Though he was a little ways off from the centre of the quarry, Clive could still smell the stains of blood upon the floor, a horrible mockery of _real_ blood, hideously false, and with his finely-tuned senses, it just made him feel sick. Clive had read once that wolves could smell their quarry from over two whole miles away, and he definitely didn't disbelieve it now. Leaning forward a bit, he nudged Hasufel's side a little with the heel of his boot, talking softly and slowly so the animal could understand him. "Head for the mountains, Hasufel. Run as fast as you can, use all the speed you have left. Don't stop, we are running out of time." His last word was just a quick and direct command, emphasizing his order with a sharp and forceful kick "Go!"

xxx

Antonio found his boss with relative ease, following the flapping wings of Kestorael as the bird flitted from chamber to chamber, finally finding the one he was seeking and perching upon a rock near the source of the reservoir, cawing for attention. The small bandit stopped at the entrance of the room and leant over slightly, resting his hands on his knees and panting. He needed to work out more, he had been slacking off his training routine and now it was beginning to show. He swore to himself that he would not lose track of that stupid bird again.

Ravendor paused as he heard the noise of the bird and Antonio's entrance, about to put his shirt back on, but then forgot about it and addressed the two, absent-mindedly kicking a small stone into the water. "Did you need me for something, Antonio?" He smiled. "Could you return in a few minutes? I am almost finished…"

"I sorry, Boss," Antonio apologised, scratching the back of his head, "I saw bird come back here so I think I no let bird be lost again." He bowed, then looked up at the other man, blanching and realising what he should have noticed before. "Whu- Wha? You quit smoking? Boss, that bad! You know what happens when you no take medicine!" He was more than a little alarmed, and slowed down his wording, trying his best to speak fluently. "Why are you preparing for a fight?" Antonio asked with intense difficulty, "I thought we were just kidnapping-"

Kestorael cut him off by cawing loudly enough so that it echoed throughout the chamber. He then added a series of quieter noises in rapid succession that also sounded like a mimicry of speech. Ravendor seemed to look like he was listening intently. The raven finally finished and looked extremely smug, ruffling it's feathers self-importantly. "I see," The drifter said after a short while, "This is what I would have expected, and I do not mind it. I was looking forward to the chance, but Kestorael, I would have appreciated it if you had informed me sooner, though."

The wind sprite winced, and then cawed once more sadly in apology. Then, Ravendor redirected his attention back to Antonio. "We _are_ kidnapping, but now the plan has changed. Kaitlyn is no more our hostage than she is our bait. I have ordered Kestorael to keep a good eye upon our soon-to-be arriving guest." He smiled in a disturbing manner, putting his shirt and jacket back on. "I have not spoken to him properly in almost ten whole years. It will be interesting to find out exactly what he has to say, and what delusions he harbors to stop me." He clenched his scarred fist and shot a look back at Antonio. "Do you remember before… when I… lost my temper?"

Antonio's blood froze. "Boss, no. Not that… not here with the chica and all, you'll bring down the tunnels and kill us all!"

He shook his head, talking softly and gently. "It is too late, my friend. It has already begun. Keep out of my way when the time comes and you may just live. I do not doubt that you are an extremely competent warrior, Antonio, but trust me. I can sense… that something is wrong." He let a tiny bit of uncertainty show. "_Very_ wrong." Ravendor went quiet for a little while as an unexpected pain shot through his nervous system, feeling his panakeia degrade a notch more. The pain didn't bother him anymore, though. It only meant that when the time came, he would be even stronger for it.

The black-feathered raven fluttered over and perched on Antonio's shoulder, sharing the small bandit's anxiety. Antonio bit his lip nervously. "If something go wrong, is my duty to protect the chica, Si? I'll do it. Just…" He took a deep breath, then sighed. "Keep your sanity, Boss. 'Ro and Dario no know it, but I do. Is scary. Is no right. I go now, but be careful on who you believe. Some things aren't worth it."

Ravendor wiped a lock of wet hair away from his eyes, smirking. "Were anyone else to boss me around, I would take no hesitation in _disciplining_ them thoroughly. But Antonio, you already are aware of precisely what I am, and so I heed your horribly distorted verbal advice. Just wait it out, it will all be over soon." He looked down the corridor the other two had emerged from, just a cold and dark tunnel with nothing inside. He frowned. "And keep a close watch on Romero as well, I do not trust him as much as I would like…"

The small man left with the bird still on his shoulder, trying to pry it's tiny sharp talons off his unprotected flesh. Ravendor waited until they were well out of the room and removed his ARM, snapping open the clip and looking at the neat bullets with an ambiguous frame of mind. He was confident, though reserved in his plan. _I would hate to give you a fool's death, Clive…_ He thought with masked emotion, _No… I will give you a messy death… I will rend the flesh from your bones… But not before, oh yes, not before I kill your daughter right in front of you!_

He chuckled darkly to nothingness, wondering what would happen in the future. Airily, he removed five out of the six bullets residing in his clip and discarded them by tossing the pieces of metal into the water reservoir, certain of one thing. Ravendor knew that he was only going to need one bullet for this fight, and that was for Kaitlyn's execution. Clive's death… well… that would be more _fun_…

**__**

I could not save Kaitlyn, and I have come to accept that fact… But Mr. Winslett, let me ask… can you?

"Let us see the limit of your love… This time, I am no bawling teenager. I **_will_** pull the trigger, and you will die."


	54. The Bond

Lombardia's great turbines slowed their oscillating rotations as the great bulk of her body shifted out of aeromech mode and into her draconic form, the reinforced steel armour and her protected metallic flesh pressing into the short-clipped grass of the northern midlands. Balloon monsters nearby scurried away to avoid being crushed, the fragility of their bodies making them easy prey to whoever developed an urge to hunt them. A low rumble formed from the dragon's powerful jaws, gradually cutting the power to her engines and saving energy. The growl was soon drowned out by a seething hissing noise, exhaust from the burnt stamina manifesting itself as an expulsion of white hot steam, filtering through the chinks in her armour. A jackrabbit popped it's tawny brown head out of the entrance to it's hidden burrow, noticed the dragon, and disappeared again in a hurry. It knew when to lay low.

A white plastic hatch emerged from Lombardia's side, and a small ramp extended to the ground, making an impression on the dried and faded green grass. Two figures emerged from inside the immense machine, stretching the kinks out of their tired joints and blinking a little at the brightness of the noontime sun, as if they hadn't been exposed to full sunlight for a long while. Virginia was leaning slightly on Jet's shoulder as they descended from the dragon, more than a little sleepy. The drifter knew she should have tried to sleep while they had flown from the Secret Garden to Baskar Colony, but though she tried, she just couldn't let sleep claim her. Virginia worried too much about the others to rest.

Jet had to keep an arm around the girl's back so she wouldn't fall over, guiding Virginia down and forward. Waiting for a second, he turned around and addressed the dragon, meeting the great beast's intense gaze with his own unique violet, and strangely apathetic eyes. Jet could look at Lombardia without fear, not because of the friendship they shared, although it _did_ occupy an important factor somewhere along the road, but because he and her were fundamentally the same kind of creature. An artificial one. 

__

Lombardia… can you stick around for a little bit longer? Just wait here, we might need you sometime later today…He said telepathically, the only outward sign that he had spoken, a small inclining of his head to one side. The dragon let out an affirming emotion over the android, not even having to answer verbally in order to get her message across. She rumbled, and Jet nodded, slowly walking towards the town, carrying with him the temporarily dead weight that was Virginia Maxwell. He didn't object as much as he should have, and even smiled a little.

Chickens swarmed around his feet for awhile as Jet entered the town, the borders of the colony indicated by a set of twin banners, decorated with white and brown feathers. The android narrowly missed treading on a tiny baby chick, fluffy and bright yellow, and the adult hens eventually understood that Jet did not bear any feed for them to snack on, ushering their little chicks to a safer area. Baskar Colony was quiet, as it always was, and if Jet spoke out loud, probably half of the town would have easily heard him. The Baskars were right to call this place a colony, there weren't even enough people around to formulate a single village.

Cordell passed him by and offered the youth a curt nod before heading off for his duties, whatever that might be. Though small, Baskar was a place filled with purposeful, yet quiet, activity. Jet felt a little bit more confident as he saw Mearas tacked to a post near Gallows's house, indicating that the priest should have made it back safely. Mearas was happily grazing on the front lawn, and whinnied a bit to show recognition to the two drifters. Jet stopped for a few procrastinating moments to pat the stallion's nose in silent praise, before moving to the door, still hauling Virginia along with him.

There was dried blood on the entrance to the household, frozen in mid-drip.

He pressed his left hand onto the patch of reddish ichor, the wood underneath it dry and abrasive, yet thick and fortified. Like a thin layer of paint, the blood did not come off as he withdrew his hand, still plastered eagerly to the door. The bright light of the sun must have dried the blood firmly to it's foundation, meaning that it had been spilled a long time ago. A sensation of unease glided though Jet's mind, not quite sure if he should be worried or not. Everything else looked tranquil, and no alarm had been raised. With such a closely-knit place, if there had been a fight, at least _one_ other person should have heard it. Assured of this, Jet entered.

Pushing the front door to the Caradine household wide open, her waited a moment before stepping in himself, years of experience learnt as a drifter prompting him to see if he would get jumped, first. He looked left and right, the room inside darkened a little by cloth sheets pinned to the walls, covering up the permanently opened windows. The fire was lit, and a weird-looking workbench was set up over the top of it. Jet was intrigued by the indescribable smell of herbs in the air, not unpleasant, just _notable_. With caution, Jet tightened his hold on Virginia by the slightest notch, and stepped up, closing the door behind him. All seemed to be well.

But Gallows sure didn't look like it. The priest was leaning up against the wall while he stirred whatever it was on the bench with a large wooden spoon, the hand he was immediately using twitching a little whenever he performed a movement with the other. In incredibly small amounts, tiny patches of burnt skin along his bare arms and cheek were red with irritation, some of the more severe ones having been treated with gauze and adhesive tape. His hair looked like something from out of a nightmare, all frizzed out worse than usual and sticking up in the wrong places, the white lock of hair that normally hung near his face just a white streak in an afro horribly gone wrong. Gallows looked troubled as he mixed up the weird concoction, then after a few seconds of Jet and Virginia just standing there, the two were finally noticed. Realizing that he had his hand wound gently around Virginia's waist, he suddenly let go and pulled away, going red.

Gallows greeted the youth heartily, slapping Jet on the back after he had set the spoon down, grinning. As the rough contact was made, Jet could feel the quivering of the big Baskar's frayed nerves through the movement, knowing that Gallows had recently gone through something incredibly painful. He guessed that it must have been Gallows's blood that was staining the front of the door outside, though Jet could see that the man was no longer bleeding. "Good to know you were luckier than I was!" Gallows crowed in his usual cheerful tone, feeling a hundred times better now that everyone was here together. He looked at Virginia, practically asleep on her feet. Then, his grin became more mischievous. "Heeeeey… Nothin' happened while I was gone, did it?" He winked. "You know what I mean…"

Jet shot the grinning man a disgusted look, throwing a small cloth parcel at him, where it bounced off the gauze stuck to the Baskar's face and landed in his open hands, tied loosely with a piece of string. Not using as much care as he should, he picked up the package and shook it, wondering what was inside. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Gallows." Jet sneered, looking away. "I'm not a hopeless womaniser like you are." Jet indicated the parcel half-heartedly, his violet eyes tired with exertion and lack of sleep. Still, they bore the unmistakable hint of pride. "We got you the aconite herb, flower, or whatever. Our job is done. I hope you managed to do the same." He said.

Gallows unfolded the cloth wrapping of the package and slowly revealed the light purple flower within, every bit as small and as frail as it looked. The purple petals were beginning to fade, which meant they had gotten it here just in time. When removed from the soil, aconite would wither and die within a matter of hours. "Yeah, I did." He replied, setting the plant with utmost care on the table. "Roykman gave it to me for free, he's a really nice guy sometimes. That was right after I got electrocuted, not that I'm complaining or anything…" He took the pot off the shelf, housing the rare herb, and showed it to Jet briefly before putting it away again, leaning against the wall. "Catherine already put it in the potion, now it's my turn to watch until everyone else gets back." He noticed Virginia. "Is she gonna be alright?"

The youth shrugged. "She'll be fine, just imitating a walking zombie, for now. None of us got much sleep last night, eh?" Gallows, chuckled, then nodded. Virginia looked unsteadily at the two men and climbed the stone stairs, back over to where the beds were located. There was a brief pause, then the sound of somebody hitting something soft and yielding, with finally silence and peace for the girl upstairs. Jet blinked a few times and turned back to Gallows, who was now stirring the mixture once more. "So, uh, where's Halle, Shane and Catherine?" The boy asked.

"Getting the last few parts of the antidote." Gallows answered readily. "They're in the storeroom on the other side of the colony. That's where all the prepared remedies and medicine are stored. I hope," He scratched the side of his nose, "That they find what they're looking for. And even more, I hope Catherine can do what she's meant to do. This antidote will be useless without it."

"Catherine?" Jet echoed, puzzled. "What can she do?"

He pulled the spoon out of the antidote and shook a few lingering drops off the tool with a couple of sharp and deft flicks, setting it on the table. The Baskar smiled, but it was a front for his own amount of uncertainty. He only knew what Shane and his Granny had told him. And even _that_ was hard to understand. From what he could figure, this concoction was not really an antidote at all, it was merely a _trigger_ to set the real cure in motion. The _real_ cure was the only thing that could save him.

And that cure, was Catherine.

xxx

Halle had no problem sifting through all the many articles of junk and expired medicine in the dim storeroom, because she had personally memorized _exactly_ where everything was meant to be, so as long as nobody had tampered with the placement of the items, she'd eventually find the object being searched for. The old woman's eyes worked poorly in the lack of light, so she navigated almost solely on her razor-sharp memory, not degraded one bit from her great age. Small boxes and pots were moved aside, and Shane helped her with all the heavier ones, while Catherine stood near the entrance and pondered on how she could help best. It didn't look like they needed much help at all.

Under his Grandmother's direction, Shane pulled out a small shoebox-sized container made of a thin and pale wood, lidded with a darker and older kind of timber. The two parts must have come from two different places in time. He opened it, took a brief look inside, and then smiled and nodded, resealing it and passing the box to Halle as she leaned her walking stick against the wall. It must have been very light, because no strain was placed upon the seemingly frail woman as she casually, rapped her knuckles on the lid, as if expecting a reply from inside.

"Sleeping." Shane said mysteriously. "Still potent." Halle agreed silently, before opening the container again and passing it to Catherine, turning the lid upside-down and slotting it under the base of the box so it would sit snugly in the ex-drifter's hands. It _was_ very light, like she was holding a box filled with nothing at all. The atmosphere dimmed by the departure of proper light, a few seconds had to pass for her to focus upon the contents of the box, becoming surprised as a faint formless shape took proper form.

It looked a lot like a small carved wooden doll, with the skin flaky and peeling in many places, a little like a bizarre kind of potato, with feathery and green leaves sprouting from the top of it's small head. It was no bigger than the length of a human hand, and rested snugly in a small box stuffed with sheep's wool, cushioned quite comfortably in it's confined space. Catherine looked at the unique plant with the lid of the box resting under her free hand, in a bewildering way, it nearly seemed as if the plant was sleeping, like a tiny little baby. But it was only a plant, it could not possibly be alive in the way she was considering, could it? Unnerved, she meekly gave it back to Halle to hold.

"Shane, could you leave us for a while?" Said Halle, turning towards her grandson. "There are some things that I need to discuss with Catherine. Go and see if the potion is still brewing, make sure your infantile brother has not tampered with it." Catherine watched Shane shift a glance between both Halle and herself, before bowing politely and leaving the room, hardly making a noise. The Baskar elder set the box with the mandrake inside back on the shelf temporarily, clearing her throat. "I suppose you've been wondering why we have been letting you prepare the antidote, instead of a more capable individual?" 

"Now that you mention it, I have." Catherine replied, more curious than she sounded. In her perception, she was the least qualified for the job. After all, the only things she could do for others now was to just be a simple housewife. It was hard enough for her to try and revive the drifter inside her, when it had been shocked into a deep slumber that nearly killed both the Aegis, and herself. Until only yesterday, Catherine believed that Ravendor had taken that part of her to the grave with him. To know that Aegis was still capable of living once more, after eleven years of repose, it was like the past had rushed forward into the present. And for once, it frightened her to think that her own definition of the present might change forever. It had all started with that awful, dreadful letter…

"There's a reason for it." Halle reassured her. "Apart from all the physical ingredients that comprise the antidote, there is also another one that only _you_ can provide, dearie." Slowly, Halle hobbled over to a shelf nearby, where she had previously left the notes that Shane had translated. Reaching her gnarled hands upwards, she took them and shuffled the paper into a particular order. This motion had no meaning, just an effective way to busy herself while she spoke. "That is the exposure of your _aura_ into the cure, it will leave an imprint on the mixture and give the _true_ power that it needs."

"My _aura_?" The woman echoed, placing one hand on her chest. "Like the spirit that manipulates an ARM? The existence of aura is highly speculative, but it _does_ account for the abilities of a medium-equipped individual. I watched Jet summon lightning yesterday, it was amazing…" She shook her head in polite denial. "But _I_ have no mediums equipped, my aura would not be of any use. Besides, would it not require a great deal of training in your faith to call forth aura without channelling a Guardian's power?" She hated to be cynical, but there were some things she just couldn't believe herself into being true. The thought of _herself_ having such power was a little ridiculous. 

"It most cases, yes." Halle said without hesitation, aware of things that Catherine wasn't. "But this case is _special_, very _special_." She began to fold the papers gradually, in half, and then in half again. "A lycanthrope needs something other than just a chemical antidote to bring them back to humanity, it takes much more than that. Even if the body _does_ return to a human form, there is no telling if the mind will follow the same pattern. If it fails, you may just wind up with a mentally shattered human, or even one that will be permanently catatonic for the rest of his life. There is a chance," Her expression became grim. "That he could stay a wolf in mind with a human body. It would be tragic."

It wasn't enough just to assist the making of his cure, Catherine wanted to _save_ him, to take away the foul curse and abolish it forever, no matter what it took. If it were possible to transfer the curse to herself and free Clive from it's clutches, she would have done it gladly. _Nobody_ deserved what he had been given, and like a poison from a wound, she was prepared to draw it out, even if it killed her. That was the extent of her love for him, and _that_ was what made her aura strong, medium or no. "Tell me what my role is in the prevention of such a thing." Catherine appealed, the dim light of the room masking her conviction. "You are implying that my aura can help him to purge his curse. I do not know how, or why that is possible, but I really do not care. It is not what is important, just… bringing him back. If I can do anything, _anything_ that would be useful, I will."

"You already have." Came the plain answer as Halle opened up the carefully closed wooden door to the storeroom, letting sunlight stream through the entrance. "Simply _working_ on the antidote and pouring your emotions, feelings and thoughts into it's creation will infuse a portion of your aura into the cure, call it an imprint, if you wish. The lycanthrope… your husband, he would be desperate for any kind of human contact, because even as he shrinks from humanity, he still wishes to be close to them. Yet, he will be afraid to hurt them, and will continue to evade the contact, to the point of lashing out at who could be considered his closest friends. He requires a bond, an _incredibly_ powerful one. If it is strong enough, he may just recognize you, and he may even come back. You and he have a daughter, right?"

"Yes, but she has been taken hostage by an old…" Catherine came up at a loss on how to finish her sentence. What could she say? Friend? Acquaintance? Boyfriend? "… By a rogue drifter who bears a grudge against my family. That is where Clive has gone, on a journey to bring her back safely." She finished off sadly. "If I had known he was… like this… I would have never let him go…" A pregnant silence, where all she did was stare at the floor. "But he would have left anyway, he values Kaitlyn above anything else."

Halle walked out of the storage room with focussed deliberation, while Catherine grabbed the mandrake box and carried it with her as she followed, keeping the old woman's pace. "Then there would be no doubt that you have been intimate with him before?" She heard Catherine stop walking as soon as she had registered the awkward question, her shoes no longer scuffing the ground. Halle turned around to face her. "He would then continue to consider you his significant other, even if it may be placed in a different context than before. You are still his life's mate, and perhaps, just perhaps, you might be able to keep him calm long enough to administer the antidote. Nobody else has that advantage over him." She smirked. "_You_ are his bond, his last tie to his former self. Only you, dearie. Only you."

"If that is what has to be done, I will do it." Catherine assured her solemnly. "I will protect him. I swore an oath many years ago that I would." Something tiny and fluffy bumped into her ankle, and she reached down and picked up the clumsy little yellow chick, patting it lightly on it's feathered back. It made a weak 'peep-peep' noise, and pecked at her hand, looking for the food expected to be inside. Catherine wasn't really paying much attention to it. So, she was his bond. It must be true, it would be the only way to explain her fearful dreams, and the constant sense of anxiety. She knew Clive was scared, she could feel it, but that fear was not for himself, or those he could truly harm, or the chance that he may never be cured….

No…

The fear was for Kaitlyn. 


	55. Death Is An Angel With Two Faces

Clive didn't know for sure, but he could have sworn that Hasufel was moving faster than usual, going at a sprint that the drifter didn't know his mount possessed. Perhaps the horse was eager to get to their destination, or perhaps Hasufel was just anxious to get rid of him as soon as possible, either way, the extra speed was a morale boost for both of them, and Clive even found himself smiling a bit throughout the ride, the effect of the wind on his face freshened his spirit and lightened his soul. It took a bit of getting used to, but as long as he remained a tight grip on Hasufel's mane, riding bareback was not as complicated as it looked. There was the slight issue of maintaining his balance, Clive had to recalculate and estimate his weight now as a metal demon, and absently felt a little bit sorry for the horse, being partially made of metal did not make him the lightest person in the world, or the easiest one to carry.

"Am I weighing you down too much, Hasufel? Sorry." He said, receiving no verbal or literate answer except for an undecipherable whinny. His ability to communicate with the horse had faded as soon as the desperate need was met, nothing more than a transient power. It didn't really matter, anyway. Hasufel understood enough of his commands to take him exactly where he wanted to go. Clive found himself grateful that he had picked a more solidly built stallion all those months ago, during their first journey together as a team in Claiborne, instead of one like Jet's Arod. He had actually gotten pretty close to selecting Arod himself. Sometimes circumstance worked itself out in mysterious ways.

He was hoping that he would have the same sort of luck when he confronted Ravendor himself. Clive knew he would have an incredibly unfair advantage, being both cursed and part-demon, but for what he had done to Kaitlyn, the dark-haired man would pay for it with his life. True, they had been the best of friends a long time ago, but from the moment he had driven a red-hot bullet straight into the marrow of his arm, and the attempt to kill himself, something unseen from those uncertain days had driven them apart forever. Clive had know he had been unstable, but not _that_ unstable. It had all started the moment Kaitlyn had begun to die.

Clive had a flash of revelation so great that he nearly forced Hasufel to come to an abrupt halt, almost letting go of the horse's mane. Of course! How the hell could he have been so stupid?! The key had been lurking around in the back of his mind for so long, going unnoticed. Seraph was Kaitlyn, and Kaitlyn was Seraph. They looked so much alike that it wasn't funny, chronologically speaking, the Seraph of twenty-five years ago was the Kaitlyn of today, by the fact of their similarity. Clive had grown to overlook it through time, hardly noticing the rate at which his daughter had been growing up, because of his frequently long absences. He and Catherine had named their daughter after Kaitlyn so that maybe part of her existence could live on in a different form, and in a way, perhaps get a second chance at life. It was all they could do to honor her memory, because they had loved her fiercely as well, as a big sister. Clive now began to wonder that when Ravendor looked at her, what did he see?

"So I am also not blameless…" He murmured, speaking through the rushing wind. "If I had thought you still alive, I would have never done such a thing. It is so very strange how the past shackles you, even when you believe yourself to be free. When released from a cage, all you find yourself in is an even larger confinement." He heard an unusual noise from somewhere behind him, but simply ignored it. "And that is what life is all about. Sometimes, I do believe I know why you wanted to end it all, and leave forever…"

Hasufel skidded to a sharp halt all of a sudden, neighing loudly and rearing up onto his hind legs, alarmed. The unexpected rising of the horse's neck caught Clive off guard and he hit the bottom of his chin under it, after having to lean closely down in order for him to not tumble off. His vision went bright white for a fragment of a second, as the impact caused his teeth to rattle around in his jaw, and he let go of one hand to clutch at the affected area. It was not a very smart move, and this time he nearly _did_ slip off. "Hasufel! What is wrong?" He demanded, struggling to keep his balance.

The horse danced around in a frightened state, scuffing the dirt and bucking as often as possible, like a frenzied ride in an old-fashioned rodeo. Clive found it amazing that he still hadn't fallen off yet. Hasufel turned suddenly and Clive thought that he might end up tearing a fistful of mane out, but then all his thoughts paused as he saw the reason for the horse's panic.

Diobarg. Huge and serpentine, it was heading straight for them.

"What?!" Clive exclaimed. "But I thought we destroyed it?!" Of course, nobody could give him a rational answer for it's presence. Plenty of theories popped into his head instead. Perhaps there had been more than just one, perhaps there had been an entire colony of the creatures. Maybe the original beast had regenerated, or this one could have been one of it's offspring. But, no matter about the theories, Clive had to figure out how to get rid of this one, first. 

He tried to spur Hasufel forwards, hissing at him to pick up speed and continue on. They might be able to outrun it, maybe, and if not, he would just have to think up another plan. This one was temporary, but he wanted to see if it would work, first. The demon estimated that Hasufel _should_ be able to outrun it, if he could just calm the horse down enough to keep on going. Hasufel spent more than enough time just staring at the beast before getting it into his head that speed was of the essence and fled, turning tail and galloping away in the direction that Clive had intended. The sniper breathed a sigh of relief, at least that small part had been accomplished.

But Diobarg was persistent, and it had spotted the man on horseback ages ago. The nature of the creature was to keep it's distance for a while, track it's quarry, and then make an unexpected jump that would send it's prey into confusion. Diobarg had been following Clive for almost a mile now, and apart from the drifter getting a hold of his mount prematurely, all was going smoothly in the monster's plan. It easily kept it's pace.

Clive was beginning to feel Hasufel's muscles underneath his body tighten with fatigue, sweat starting to bead throughout the horse's fur. No matter how far they could run, Clive knew that Diobarg would be more than happy to chase. That was what gave the creature such a deadly reputation, anyway. So, the sniper shot a glance at the monster behind him, he would just have to do his duty as a drifter and destroy it. He knew he was strong, much stronger than when he last confronted a Diobarg, he should be able to easily win.

Then something painfully obvious struck him right in his ego.

He was unarmed.

The drifter, at that moment, would have given almost anything to have his Gungnir, in working condition, by his side. He knew that one singular shot would be more than enough to take the creature down, and his thoughts veered off at a right angle to wonder precisely how much use Catherine had been able to take out of it so far. Clive hoped none, he really didn't like the idea of her fighting again, even, in the most painful of truths, that she had always been a much better gunner than himself. He had improved since her retirement, but still… In his books, she would always be better.

However, he had one other thing that only a few people on Filgaia possessed. Magic, the power of the medium. In this fight, unable to perform melee attacks, it was all he had to rely on. This would be difficult, because he wasn't quite sure on the full extent of his abilities, ever since his modification, any arcana that he used wound up to be three or four times more powerful than he needed. Clive had no choice but to take a wild risky chance.

"Cremate!"

He raised his hand and expelled the spirit energy, manipulated by his fire medium into a howling blaze, bursting like blossoms of licking flame all over Diobarg's scaly and plated skin, scorching and eating away at the flesh with a ravenous hunger. The monster screeched out a high-toned wail of anguish for it's wounded body, sagging onto the ground for only a few seconds, before getting up again and continuing the chase, only developing a slight limp from the damage done. Clive was somehow impressed, though he did not like it's swift recovery. Smoke and small embers clung to it's body in blackened chunks, living off the fat stored underneath it's armor and burning it like candle wax. This gave Clive another idea.

Clive sifted through his inventory and procured one of his many small arsenals of bombs, unlit, but still packed with gunpowder and other forms of explosive. He did not dare lighting it in his own hands, his spare lighter had run out of fluid ages ago and casting another cremate spell over the wick would probably explode both himself _and_ Hasufel, but he thought up an even better method instead.

Trusting his luck enough without having to perform a recast of the Hox Pox spell, Clive gathered his wits and locked onto a part of Diobarg's body that was smoldering the most, the scales coating the body glowing red hot from the heat. This entire plan ran on the power of chance. Clive hefted the bomb as hard as he could at the monster, praying to the Guardian's that the impact and the instant introduction to heat would be enough to set off the wick into activation. If so, perhaps one of his bombs could do the damage that was needed.

It struck Diobarg's side hard, and waiting for the next part seemed to take the time span of forever.

The explosion was augmented by the strength at which Clive had thrown the bomb, blasting away a goodly portion of Diobarg's hide, chunks of burning flesh and scales flying everywhere. Hasufel cried out in fear and galloped faster, while Clive just smiled in a satisfied manner. That fight had been over before it had even begun, _nobody_ could beat him in combat. For over two thousand years, not a soul could have bested him…

Except he realized that that was Boomerang talking, and not himself. Clive shook his head and noticed how pretty the flames looked as they devoured the exploded pieces of flesh, and vaguely hoped that he wasn't turning into a raging pyromaniac. If so, he would have to exchange his medium with somebody else soon. Gungnir or not, Clive had won.

Then Hasufel practically screamed, and he knew that something was wrong. Clive turned around to see where Diobarg was, which should have been nothing more than a burning point in the distance, but gasped in surprise as the head, shoulders, arms and part of the torso were still chasing them, the back part of the creature blown away. It dragged itself across the ground astonishingly fast, and blood poured out from it's midsection, the heart trying to pump blood into areas that were no longer there. It's agony was made present in it's screeching voice, wailing like a bat out of hell.

__

Damn it! It will not stop until it has killed us both! I must destroy it, but what I have already used is the extent of the abilities I have access to, so far. If this cannot stop it, I do not know what… Wait… A bomb to the side of it's head, maybe? If I can remove it's head, then the body will easily die…

He searched his inventory for another bomb, but unluckily, found nothing. He was all out. Clive cursed his misfortune most vehemently and enclosed his fist around one of the objects in his pocket, which caused him a moderate amount of unexpected pain. The palm of his hand sliced, and he felt his blood begin to flow. Puzzled, Clive yanked his hand out again to see what had cut him.

The broken steel of his switchblade glinted amidst his darkened blood, coated in the oily substance. Clive pulled it out while he gritted his teeth, some of the clear gunk from the dead crab bubbler was still present on the blade, and it stung his wound like a mild acid. With the piece of metal withdrawn, he clenched his hurt hand to cut of the flowing blood and waiting for his healing factor to kick in. Until then, he contemplated the arrival of the seemingly useless blade. It had saved him countless times before, and now, maybe… 

All the games of darts he had ever played in his life suddenly became invaluable, merging that technique with his lock-on skill. Diobarg was running parallel to Hasufel and himself, and Clive could see it's great big eye staring at him, looking him over, in pain, yet carefully calculating. It was like a moving target, and, remembering that the optical nerve was a direct connection from the eyeball to the brain itself, Clive drew his plan from that knowledge. He threw the piece of metal like a dart, trusting his impeccable accuracy to help him hit home.

__

Nobody could beat me at darts, He remembered, _Except for one other person, but I do not want to go into that right now… Perhaps later…_

Every fiber of Diobarg's body froze in an indescribably agony as the sharp little projectile pierced through the watery softness of it's exposed eye, splitting the optical nerve in two, a perfect hit in the complete center, dividing the eyeball lengthwise. Clear optical fluids began to squirt from the release of the eye, running down it's scaly face and escaping. The tip of the blade pierced it's brain, the blood welling inside causing a fatal blood cloth which shut down it's entire system. And throughout all of the pain and suffering, Diobarg howled like the world was coming to an end, forcing Clive to actually let go of Hasufel's mane in order to cover his sensitive ears, recoiling from the noise. The foul creature finally collapsed, and never got back up again.

"Whoa!" Clive called, causing Hasufel to canter to a swift halt, the horse panting and steaming from the fatigue lost in their exodus. The demon gave his ride a few precious minutes to recover, patting the side of Hasufel's neck in gratitude. Afterwards, he took a few more in order to convince the horse to head back to the body of Diobarg, because he had left something there that he wanted to get back.

Clive dismounted and walked back there instead, it was easier for Hasufel to cope with. The sniper circled around the corpse slowly, taking in all the injuries and smelling the small cracklings of a body still burning. It was no longer breathing, and had lost just about all the blood it had. Clive couldn't hear a heartbeat or a pulse, either. He officially proclaimed it dead, moving over to it's face and gently withdrawing the short and rusted blade he had lost.

"This is quickly becoming my good luck charm." He joked, smiling a little bit before turning back to his horse. Clive looked up as he moved, indirectly glancing at the sky. The sun was lowering itself to the ground at a steady pace, early afternoon was becoming late afternoon. "I wish I had not slept in so late…" He sighed, regretting his late awakening. Making an educated guess, Clive estimated that it was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Twilight was a only a few hours away. 

The drifter mounted Hasufel again, looking at the mountains that were so much closer and pronounced on the horizon than before. As long as he hurried, and didn't stop again for _any_ reason whatsoever, he just might make it. "The Guardian shrine…" He muttered, lightly kicking Hasufel in the side to spur him onwards again, "If you would be anywhere, you would be there. I cannot be wrong, I _know_ I am correct. I think I can… sense you there…" Within a few seconds, horse and drifter were gone, back on the route of their journey. 

The wind sprite watched Clive leave from his little perch on the tip of Diobarg's nose, ruffling his feathers up and cawing. Leaning down, he tore off a few strips of partially cooked flesh and gobbled them down with greed. Kestorael knew that if he was stuck with scout duty, he may as well get a free meal out of it as well. Kestorael remembered Clive vividly from the green-haired man's childhood, when the raven himself had been only a little hatchling, and he honestly didn't have anything directly _against_ him, but he knew what his master wanted, and so he did it without question. Well, if he had the vocal chords to learn english, he probably would have, but himself and his master always came first. _Always_.

Kestorael did indeed have a fondness for Clive that had not dwindled over the years, but that was still, also the past. Even if they were on opposite sides now, well, that was just a fact of life. Humans had a phrase for that, and the raven took the time to try and recall it. Oh yes, _'Shit happens.'_ That was it. What a wonderful summarization of the human experience. If Kestorael could laugh, he would have.

Instead, he spread his wings and took flight, keeping a close eye on Clive for his master. 

xxx

He knew that if he stayed underground for too long, it would easily drive him mad. Despite the fact that the sun's brightness hurt his eyes a little (he had been engineered for night vision), Ravendor leant against the edge of the cave's entrance, whittling away the time. There was hardly any air in the cave, stagnant and vile, making it difficult to breathe. The other bandits and Kaitlyn seemed not to notice the stuffiness with their human senses, but it was his programmed dislike of small places that forced him out into the open. Ravendor narrowed his eyes. _Programmed_. He had been _programmed_ against his will, and it had taken nearly everything he had to break free of those shackling chains.

The dark-haired man had removed his gloves and was slowly wrapping a long length of white pristine bandage over his right hand and forearm, starting from the joint at the elbow and working his way downwards. He wasn't injured, he was just preparing himself for what was to come. The bindings were made as tight as he could wind them, nearly enough to cut off his circulation, but not quite. Sighing, Ravendor ignored everything else except for his task. For ten whole years, he had tried to bury both his programming and his past, but they always seemed to pop up right when he didn't need it. Finding out that he was the only prophet remaining had struck him a huge blow, if only because he now had no method left to purify his artificial blood. And even worse, discovering that Clive was still alive and _married_, of all things, to _Catherine_. He just would have never thought of it, but it was somehow true. Clive was still alive, and so he had to remedy that situation.

Ravendor's bandage ran out of length, so he tied the cloth off at the base of his wrist and fumbled in his pockets for a new one, swearing lightly. It was the afternoon, it _hurt_, and so he was almost out of time. He _knew_ Clive was coming, Kestorael was constantly giving him updates on the man's current position, which made him uneasy. He _wanted_ this, but at the same time, he was reluctant to enter battle. The last time he had fought without reservation, he had almost killed himself, the enemy, and all the spectators around them. A few years back he had even made to effort to check up on one or two of them, not that it made much difference. They were still locked up in that asylum, still stark raving mad, permanently damaged, unable to return to the sane world. Ravendor could understand why, the things that they had seen, if he had not been the object of their insanity, he probably would have easily been one of them. Sometimes he wondered how he kept himself more or less normal.

He discovered another roll of bandage and pulled it out, but his fingers slipped in the motion and it fell out of his hand, rolling to a short halt in a mound of dusty, water-drained dirt. His right hand had gone numb, he knew it would, but he knelt over and reached for the bandage anyway. Ravendor liberated the item and a small amount of dust at the same time, shaking one from the other while watching his own movements with eyes dulled by boredom. The earth in his hands was dead, devoid of living bio-material, just eroded sandstone and slate. If there had been _any_ life inside, he would have sensed it, and he was a bit disappointed by the fact that there was none. Last time he had checked, Filgaia was actually _fighting_ back the decay that clung so tenaciously to it's surface.

__

Everything dies, He thought quietly, _This planet, the people within it… Birds, fish, trees… Nothing will remain…except for me. I thought that if I could support the Council of Seven with my power, perhaps they could revitalize the land like they promised… I had nothing else, back then, and they practically **controlled** me, anyhow. But…_

Suddenly, Ravendor sensed another presence, one as corrupt as his own.

__

"But… they abandoned you, didn't they?" Another voice sneered, forcing the dark-haired man to stand up swiftly and face the addition to the area. The rest of the dirt fell from his fingers as he dusted them off, taking his time to look up. When he finally did, Ravendor had to immediately mask his surprise, tensing slightly. He was staring at himself, or more precisely, a smug-looking shadow of himself, talking with a voice full of arrogance and conceit. He was merely inches away from Ravendor's face, leaning over the original version of himself with his arms folded in a condescending manner. He was not there, truly, but sometimes it could seem all too real. _"Once they were done with their twisted godless experiments, they left you to cope with your own trauma, correct, Mr. Guinea Pig?"_

"No," Ravendor's argued softly, looking down and continuing to bandage his hand, continuing the slow winding motion. "I left them out of my own personal interest. I was never a true part of the Council of Seven, and I always wished it to remain that way. Holding power as a Prophet did not appeal to me, so I departed." His scar disappeared under the white cloth as he worked, bound and hidden away. He knew that Clive also had a similar scar, a bullet wound right near his elbow. Living on Filgaia meant that you were bound to be scarred, it was a fact of life…

The shade reached out and grabbed Ravendor by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. He looked somewhat amused as the drifter instinctively tried to pull himself away, despite knowing that the shade wasn't even there. _"Do you not despise them for what they did to you? Knowingly? And Malik, do you not hate him for making you what you are? For all the unwanted 'attention' he spent on you? You must have hated that… You hate everybody, the Prophets, Clive, the world in general… So much hate… No wonder you are a monster…"_

Ravendor effortlessly pushed the shade away, and it had no choice but to let go. The bandit leader looked annoyed, he was not in the mood to argue with himself today. "I do not deny it," He admitted, "Now cease pestering me and go back to wherever you came from. You are merely stating facts that I already know to be true." He finished his work, stretching his hand out to test the elasticity of the bandages. They held together pretty well.

__

"Why are you bandaging your arm?" The shade asked with a demonic grin. _"What is it that you wish to hide? Do you expect others to believe that you are human? How sad. You are not human, just a **thing** with a human form. For ten years you have **imitated** mankind, to live with them, to survive with them, but your body is just a horrible forgery, a cheap replica. What is your true form, Project Dark Angel?" _The shade took great pleasure in repeating himself. _"Why are you bandaging your arm?"_

Project Dark Angel. It had been nearly a decade since anybody had ever called him that. Ravendor clenched his fists, the bandages stretching. He did not reply, just turning and walking away, back into the cavern. The shade looked triumphant as it faded away, or in truth, it had never really existed there in the first place. It had said what it had wanted to say, and now it was contented. Ravendor felt his panakeia boil inside his veins, a slight and fairly harmless crackle of dark electricity forming around his arms, before dissipating into the ether. He already knew he was not particularly stable, but… he really hated to acknowledge it. He liked to get through his life telling others that he was sane, even if it was just a simple lie.

Kaitlyn ran up to him with an innocent smile on her face, grabbing his hand and trying to tug him forward. "Come and see what I made!" She exclaimed brightly, "I finished the puzzle on the floor! Come see!" Ravendor remained rooted to the spot for an uncertain moment, then he let go and allowed himself to be led to the broken mosaic covering a corner of the floor, carefully placed in some kind of coherent order. The little girl had actually done a pretty good job overall, but there were still some gaps here and there amongst the pictures, something Ravendor didn't choose to point out. She had run out of pieces to organise, and so she considered her work complete.

"Very nice. I see you have not wasted your time…" He inputted, glancing at a sleeping Dario and a loitering Romero. "Unlike certain other people I can mention…" He kneeled over and patted Kaitlyn lightly on the head, taking note to use his left hand instead of his right. Kaitlyn was beaming with pride as she gestured, her smile bold and open.

Upon taking a grip on Ravendor's hand, Kaitlyn unknowingly loosened a small bit of his bandage, only at the very top, where it unravelled a few centimetres and went unnoticed, the end getting caught underneath the sleeve of Ravendor's jacket. It revealed not what one would come to expect from him, pale skin and flesh, but gleaming perfection, the edge of a polished obsidian plate of armour, covering the front of his arm and seeming to be made out of the same substance as his arsenal of black feather darts.

He felt pain, he _always _felt pain, but now, that pain was taking on a solid and frightening form.

xxx

They all congregated with a collection of much lighter hearts, a great deal of hugging, backslapping, prideful comments and short tales of their overnight adventures. Gallows in particular, had woven his epic saga of the Eel Volk and his electrocution at least four or five times, and, Virginia giggled a bit on this fact, each time he told it the number of monsters seemed to increase. By now, Gallows was claiming that no less than thirty amphibian monstrosities had jumped him in the middle of the night, and that he had slain them all effortlessly. Jet was trying his hardest to keep his mouth shut and not make any comments over this, and Shane actually looked like he was believing his older brother's story. Catherine just kept quiet, and Halle was snickering softly to herself. In truth, it was just a relief to know that everyone else was safe and well.

While they chatted, Catherine was still working on the antidote, diligently and dutifully continuing her work. Raising one hand over the cup, she sprinkled a small amount of the silver compound into the mixture, after having crushed it up into a very fine powder. The substance glittered as it sunk into the fluid, like a whisper of fading stardust. As soon as that was done, acting on the directions of the antidote, she had to apply the aconite flower straight away, not needing any preparation at all and just dropping the entire plant into the concoction. This was precisely what she did, without hesitation.

After a little lie down, Virginia was now awake enough to watch Catherine intently, noticing how involved she looked with the potion's creation, how _focussed_ she was becoming. It was strange to watch such a soft and warm-hearted person look so honed to a single project, like looking at a velvet sheath and knowing that there was a razor-sharp dagger inside. Catherine was like that, a little bit, in an abstract sense.

Shane passed Catherine a knife, as soon as she had set the wooden spoon down. Taking a choice few seconds, he put a thick chopping board in an empty space between the ingredients and placed the bizarre potato-like carved doll in the center, stepping away afterwards. He smiled. "This is the mandrake plant. Do you want an explanation on it's… unusual shape?"

"I do." Virginia butted in, curious. Catherine looked sideways at her, then smiled and nodded as well. She had heard the word 'mandrake' before, a long time ago in some form of ancient superstition, but for the life of her she just could not remember it. Shane would probably know more about it, anyway. Virginia gently put her hand on the herb, and was surprised to find that it had a sort of _warmth_ radiating from the inside, a sensation that was impossible to describe.

The young Baskar nodded obligingly, picking up the plant and holding it like one would hold a child's toy, around the midsection with a careful grip. He began. "Mandrake was held to be more than a plant, it's long doll-like root was said to embody an earth spirit, and pulling it from the ground made the spirit shriek so horribly that any person hearing it would die." He stopped explaining for a few seconds to let the other absorb the information, before continuing. "Because of this, dogs were used to uproot the plant. A hungry dog was tied to the mandrake and some meat was placed nearby. Theoretically, the dog would rush at the meat, but would soon die as the shrieking plant was torn out."

"That's terrible!" Virginia exclaimed, "The poor dog!"

"Many others thought that too," Shane informed her, "So the Baskar priesthood banned the further cultivation of the mandrake herb unless it was a life or death situation. We've been training pilbugs recently to perform the task, seeing that the type of creature they are means that they have no definite hearing to damage. Maybe once we have domesticated them, cultivation can begin anew." He placed the plant back on the chopping board. "Just cut it all up into little cubes and distribute it into the antidote. That should do the job."

Catherine had more than a hard time chopping up something that looked so much like a tiny baby into little cubes, even though it _was_ like preparing potatoes for dinner. She brushed away the green leaves at the top and tossed the pale cream-coloured chunks in with the rest. It was not long before they too disappeared. "Is there anything else I need to do?" She asked, wanting to keep working so that she could remain focussed. "Are there any more ingredients?"

"Yes, yes…" Halle rasped in her aging voice as she hobbled over to Catherine's side. "Another important one, nearly as important as the one we discussed…" She winked at her, then removed a sharp little knife from the table, honed to a spike-like point. "A drop of your blood, a drop of blood from the person he cares for the most. Hold out your hand, this will only sting for a second." But Catherine wanted to do it herself. She took the knife off Halle and held her hand over the mixture, poking a small hole in her finger and allowing a welling bead of bright red blood to fall sullenly into the liquid. It made a little red blot on the surface of the broth, before mingling and becoming one with the rest. A small sacrifice of her own life-force to save another. It was a worthy donation.

"There," Catherine breathed, "All done." 

"And now, the final ingredient." Halle had to pause, rustling the papers a little as she looked at them. The space between her sentences was long, and at the same time, overwhelming. "A hair from the lycanthrope himself." She finished at last, shaking her head slowly from side to side.

That silence passed from the elder, to all the other occupants of the room, dropping heavily onto them like a lead weight. The wooden spoon Catherine was stirring the nearly-completed antidote with slipped to the floor from her loosened fingers, hitting the edge of the bench on it's way down, her face incapable of expressing the true emotions within. Shane and Gallows looked blank. Virginia was staring at the ground, her arms firmly by her sides. Jet glanced at the old woman, his façade unreadable.

Halle had just asked for an impossible item, one that none of them had, or could find.

And that was that.


	56. Wings Ensnared With Rusted Chains

The household had gone silent. No one spoke, they all thought their hardest on how to get the last ingredient, with such a small amount of time to do so. The sky was growing dark outside, getting ready for the last night of the full moon, even as the sky was turning dusky and red, the tiny pinpoints of sacred lights, the stars, were coming out to shine. The night was coming far too early, and nothing, _nothing_ could stop it.

Jet was the quietest of them all, sitting away from the others on the stairs, resting his elbow on one of his knees and using the palm of his hand to support the bottom of his chin. Eyes half closed, he was using up most of his energy just thinking on what to do next. His mind was clear, but the others were so emotional in their extended reaction to Halle's proclamation that none of them would be able to think up a proper solution. Especially Catherine and Virginia, they looked beside themselves with despair. Jet sighed deeply, hating to be the brains of the operation.

The potion still bubbled merrily above the flames, oblivious to the knowledge that it could now be considered worthless. Without the final ingredient, it would have absolutely no proper use. Gallows sullenly took the cup off the boil, so it could cool down for one last time. When his hands left the rim of the ceramic container, one of them moved up to scratch at one of the gauze patched covering the burn marks on his face, where not even a few well-placed heal spells had been able to fix. They must have itched a lot, and by Gallows's particular expression, not all the pain must have faded just yet. A few of them had a small staining of blood seeping through the cloth, and Jet took special note of this without really knowing the reason why. It had an importance that he could not remember, but his sixth sense was going off like crazy to make him remember. Gallows noticed Jet staring. "What is it?" He asked.

"Hey…" Jet said slowly, turning to face Virginia. "When you undressed Clive's wound, what exactly did you do to the bandages?" Virginia looked uncertain, but after a few moments of thought, she patted one of the pockets of her dress, checking to see if they were still there. In all the clamor and hubbub of the past few days, she had totally forgotten to throw them out. Jet nodded, talking in his usual detached manner. "I was just thinkin' about it when I was watching Gallows." He stated. "And that I thought I had an idea."

"Me?" Gallows mumbled, pointing at himself. "What did _I_ do?" Shane looked at him, and then Catherine. Soon, every single pair of eyes were focussed on the eldest Baskar brother, which made Gallows a tad nervous. He sweatdropped before raising his hands a little, forcing out an anxious chuckle. "Don't look at me like that. You're gonna make me paranoid…" 

Jet elaborated further, amused by Gallows's weird reaction. "Well, before his bite wound closed up, there was a hell of a lot of blood, right?" He didn't wait for anybody else to reply. "And we all know that blood goes sticky before it dries. So, if Clive _did_ develop that bit of fur while his wound was closing up, it's only logical that maybe some of the dried blood left on the bandages might have strands of hair on it as well." The reaction was delayed, but when they finally _did_ respond, Jet was smug to the fact that he had cheered everyone up.

"Gah! Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ me!" Gallows cried, smacking himself lightly in the face but still smiling, "Why the heck didn't _I_ think of that?! That's genius, Jet! Oh man, some of my own talent must be rubbing off on you, eh?" Jet just shrugged, staying quiet while the others were suddenly back in on the action. Virginia quickly took the bandages out of her pocket, spreading them out on the workbench. They were indeed quite bloodstained, and stank a little of decay. What intrigued them a little was that while most of the blood was bright red and normal, there was also small patches of a dark substance, staining the fabric like machine oil. Jet was startled as Catherine suddenly hugged him, uttering something that sounded like a cross between a sob and relieved laughter. The android went limp, but did not move or attempt to pry her away. She was just grateful.

Virginia was still checking the bindings, with Shane at her shoulder offering a little extra help. Those patches of strange oil unnerved her a little, but it was in one of those spaces that she removed with one of her nails a small strand of greyish-blue fur, amply hidden in the dark dried fluid. Virginia tipped the hair into the palm of her hand, it was very tiny, would it be enough? "I got one!" The drifter announced, turning to face Catherine. The woman approached and Virginia passed her the solitary hair with a smile, luck was still on their side.

The potion, although set aside to cool, was still bubbling as it's heat receded, and Catherine dropped the hair in with extreme care, watching it disappear into the broth. "That is everything, right? Arnica, aconite, ambrosia, curare, silver, mandrake, blood, and a lycan's hair. Are we done?" She faced Halle, the old woman standing quietly behind them all. Her aged face creasing up into a grin, she nodded. Catherine felt a huge weight fall away, and she sighed. 

Slowly, Halle hobbled over to the pot, her wooden cane nearly stomping Gallows on the foot as she approached. "You all did very well," She announced, looking at each person evenly and equally, "I'm impressed. Just give this potion a few more minutes to mix, and you can be on your way to save this lycanthrope from himself." Halle faced Gallows, and raised her cane as if she was going to beat him again, and Gallows squeezed his eyes shut as if he expected it. That blow never came, just a weak tap that harbored no malice. He opened one eye, confused. Halle found the next few words very difficult to muster. "Grandchild… You didn't fail. Not bad, keep it up and you might actually make me proud one day…" She quickly followed it up with; "If that's possible."

Gallows was dumbstruck, and Shane patted him on the back with pride.

Catherine had her hand on the rim of the potion's container, staring into it's watery depths. It had turned a greyish-blue, just like the colour of the fur. She wondered, briefly, what Clive would look like now. Would she recognize him?

Would he?

xxx

He had unwittingly fallen asleep. It was all his activity during the day that had caused it, generally being a nocturnal creature in himself, but it was not uncommon for Ravendor to nod off at times, especially if nothing very interesting was happening around him. Dario and Antonio had taken Kaitlyn to a chamber not too far away, after seeing that their boss needed his peace, and Romero had followed them out of sheer boredom. He was sitting down against one of the dark walls of the shrine, the room barely holding any light, but just enough for a person to scout their way around. His head down, Ravendor made hardly any noise at all as he slept, except for the slight rising and falling of his breath. Gently, his bandaged hand twitched, and he slowly opened his bright green eyes, waking up.

The first thing he noticed was that he was lying in a puddle of his own blood and panakeia.

The pain settled itself back into his consciousness, alerting him to his problem. Ravendor groaned and leant back forward from the wall, feeling something unfamiliar behind his body and under his white jacket flex from the motion. He raised his left hand to his mouth, speckled with panakeia, and gently touched a portion of it with his tongue, checking the potency of the solution. His panakeia had never been this weak before, nor did it so readily escape from his body. Ravendor felt that his scars had begun to bleed again, in sync with the coming of darkness, and laid back again, wincing as the rock pressed down on those scars without remorse. "Corvus corax mutation… twelve percent…" He whispered almost inaudibly. "Human DNA total… thirty-five percent…" He paused for a long time, his bandaged hand twitching every so often. "Synthetic demon composition… fifty-three percent…"

__

It is hard to remember... what it was like to be human...

He knew what he was, and he knew what he was going to be. Project Dark Angel, he was coming back.

He wished that this could have come up during a time when he was not working, or when he did not have to deal with an innocent child. Ravendor didn't want Kaitlyn to see him in his original form. The drifter tentatively stood up on his own two feet, looking down and seeing a few discarded black feathers floating around in a concoction of his panakeia and imitation blood. He knew where they had come from, removing his jacket and shaking all the blood from it. Perhaps white was not the best colour for him to wear after all.

The back of his dark shirt had twin slits running down his shoulder blades, for a very good reason. From only being newly born, the wings on his back stung as he fit them through the opening, with a wingspan no larger than fifty or so centimeters, but no less painful. They would grow bigger soon. When he had shaken from his jacket as much blood as he could, Ravendor slipped the piece of clothing on, over his back and wings, before spreading his arms, holding his palms out, and closing his eyes. He would arouse suspicion if he just wandered around like that, covered in blood.

A light glowed in the darkness, coloured an aqua-like green, manifesting itself as a thin and angular text running down along his arms and hands. It was a runic script, and the natural language of the demon race, stolen from the Hyades database all those years ago. The tiny lines of writing activated a brief flash of unbearable light, and when it faded only seconds later, all the blood and loose feathers had gone. Ravendor took a deep breath, and lowered his arms to his sides. Opening his eyes once more, the bandit leader checked to see if he looked alright and left the room to find the others.

Kestorael greeted him in the next room, flying ahead and leading him to where the others were, only a few rooms away from the entrance and at a structure that looked somewhat like an altar, with long trailing dead vines clinging tenaciously to the white marble pillars. It had no leaves, lost ages ago, but this room seemed unaffected by the explosion a decade ago, it still retained it's marvelous beauty. Kaitlyn was standing on the altar, splashing her hands in a shallow pool supplied by the shrine's water reservoir, smiling in child-like pleasure. There were some pebbles at the bottom, and she was fishing those stones out, as if she was searching for a gemstone lost somewhere in the make-believe sea. Romero was leaning against one of the pristine white pillars, and Antonio was shadow-boxing the air. Dario sat nearby, cleaning his ARM.

Ravendor moved up behind Kaitlyn, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Leaning over her head, he looked down at what she was doing and smiled. "Searching for drifter artifacts, Kaitlyn?" He asked. "Are you having any luck?"

She answered him after a second, but her words and tone of voice were serious. Straightening up and turning around, she cocked her head to one side and looked curious. "Uncle Ravendor, I need to ask you something." She said, dropping a handful of stones back into the water. They made a low splooshing noise and tossed up a light splashing of water, which disappeared soon after. Kaitlyn looked like something had been on her mind for a long while, making the happy go-lucky girl somewhat different than usual. "Last night after you fell asleep, I stayed up for a while and heard you talking in your sleep. You were crying about somebody called Seraph, who's Seraph?"

"Nobody," Ravendor answered automatically after some thought, "Just a-"

He broke off in mind-sentence, glancing sharply behind him. Somebody had just entered his range of aural charge, a radius that extended around the entire shrine and a litter bit after that. If _anybody_ was to enter that range, Ravendor would immediately know about it. Somebody just did, at that very second, and he recognized them without question. Clive had reached the entrance to the ruin.

Kaitlyn gasped in mild surprise as Ravendor reached down and picked her up effortlessly, turning and descending down the steps of the altar without giving her a proper answer. If it were possible, his green eyes could have crystallized, now hardened into an emerald finish that made him looked positively _haunted_ by something. He deposited Kaitlyn next to Dario, and hauled the bearded bandit to his feet by one hand, gripping him by the collar with his knuckles grazing Dario's throat. "B-Boss?" Dario choked with alarm.

"Listen to me," Ravendor hissed, letting go of the other man, "This chamber has six different corridors behind this altar. Take the second one on the left and follow it without question. That passageway is very winding and will have many different paths branching out from the original tunnel, _but do not take **any** of them_, understand?" Dario nodded in blind conformance. "Follow the passage and you shall come to an _incredibly_ large room, _stay_ there and do not move from your post. Make sure that Kaitlyn is not out of your sight, keep her guarded at _all times_." Ravendor turned and began to walk away. "Do not disappoint me, Dario. Romero. Antonio. Kestorael, go with them. I will meet up with you shortly."

"But Boss!" Antonio protested after finding the corridor Ravendor was talking about. "Is blocked off! I no can see way in! Rocks in way!" A recent cave-in had sealed off the pathway, a multitude of boulders and stones making it impossible to go ahead. This was not good, as it was the only way to their rendezvous point. On Antonio's words, Ravendor checked it out for himself. The small bandit was right. 

"Dammit," The drifter spat, condemning his own misfortune, "Somebody cover Kaitlyn's eyes, I do not want her to see this…" Antonio did as he was told, gently placing his gloved hands over Kaitlyn's eyes. She protested a little, but remained cooperative, even though she probably could of fought Antonio off if she tried, for the exceedingly short man was actually no taller than she was. Pulling her away, the other bandits backed off under Ravendor's direction, giving him space. Once again, the runes appeared on the exposed parts of his arms, making Dario and Romero's eyes widen in surprise. Antonio sighed and looked away, knowing what would come next. Gravity lightened a little around Ravendor's body, making his jacket billow slightly, and a dark form of electricity crackled into life, powered by his failing panakeia.

"What's going on?" Kaitlyn whined, "I wanna see!"

Ignoring her, Ravendor expelled the dark lightning into the blocked tunnel with a grunt of exertion, the runes fading as the spell was cast. It shot like a trailing bullet into the rocks, the impact causing the electricity to run along the creases and gaps between the stone like a spider spinning a web, before disappearing entirely from view. It stayed like this for nearly three seconds, just long enough for the three bandits to drop their guard.

Then it exploded in a burst of fizzling darkness and shattered rock, the shrapnel from the blast somehow not reaching the bodies outside the tunnel. A whole lot of dust did, however, and they all had to shield their noses and mouths until the dirty cloud died down and settled. Kaitlyn squirmed as Antonio removed his hands, but all the little girl could guess was that one of them had used some kind of a bomb. Romero grabbed her hand and a horrible feeling of uneasiness shot through her body. She did not like that man very much.

Ravendor gave out some new orders. "Antonio and Kestorael, I want you to go and scout this place out for me. If _anything_ seems amiss or goes wrong, come and tell me. We have an intruder in our hideout, I want you all to prevent him from finding our hostage. Use force if you have to, but _no_ killing without my approval! Clive Winslett shall not reach Kaitlyn!"

For Kaitlyn, everything had finally clicked into place. "Daddy?!" She cried. "Uncle Ravendor, why?! Don't hurt him, please!" She tried to run ahead and reach him, but Romero roughly yanked her back. Still, she tried to reach out to him. "No!"

But Ravendor was already gone.

xxx

Clive finally dismounted Hasufel when they reached the foot of the tall mountains, the vague reddish haze of dusk imposing on them from every single direction. Without a proper map to guide him, the drifter had to rely on his faint memory of the ruin from eleven years ago, and even with that knowledge, it would still be rather unreliable due to the ruin's current state. A decade ago it had been a proud and magnificent shrine, now it would only be a gruesome and ominous cave. Clive had never seen the destroyed ruin with his own eyes, even when he was escaping from it, but he thought that with a little ingenuity, he should be able to locate it. Coupled with his newly acquired tracking skills, the entrance was probably only a short search away.

"This is where I will leave you, my friend." He said, patting Hasufel lightly on the side of his neck. Hasufel whickered softly and trotted away, but not before nudging Clive slightly with his large rounded nose, probably his own special way of saying goodbye. Clive had no rein or saddle to relinquish from the animal, so he merely stood there quietly as the horse walked away, his arms carefully folded across his front. Hasufel had been a good steed for the price, no more than five hundred gella, and it was a small shame to see him go. Clive could only hope that he would not be needing Hasufel's speed for a long time now, or else he would be in trouble. Even so, he would never break his promise. Hasufel was now a freed horse. 

"It is probably better for both of us…" Clive continued to himself as he turned towards the mountains, putting his back to the retreating form of the dark brown stallion. "Wherever _I_ am going, it is best that no living creature follow me." Setting one hand on the tough rocky surface of the nearly vertical base of the mountain, Clive once again caught the scent of the bandits on the air, but was now stuck with a new predicament. Should he go left or right? He knew he didn't have the time to dwell on a singular decision, when dusk wore out he would lose himself again, and had to choose fast. Using a simple method, Clive walked to the left for about a hundred meters and checked the strength of the scent, before doubling back and doing the exact same thing for the right. Pausing, he evaluated the difference and made his decision. He would head right.

Adjusting his glasses out of sheer habit, Clive felt a sense of jittery urgency build up somewhere in his mind, as if he could sense that an hourglass, _his_ hourglass, somewhere far away, was extremely close to running out. Only a few straggling grains of sand were left. Thinking these thoughts did not slow him down, all Clive was really focussing on was the minute differences in the chemical compounds in the air, governing which types of scent domineered over others. His new abilities were practically second-nature to him now, and Clive could find it hard to believe that he had been able to exist without them before. He had been a big, stupid, clunky and uncoordinated human, now he was much more agile, smarter, _superior_. Clive didn't particularly want to trade all that back. As the end of the third and final day of his curse neared, he was actually beginning to _like_ what he was becoming.

__

It will not be so bad, I suppose. I can get used to things… like this… as long as I stay away from the humans, of course. The fur and the fangs… I can ignore, they are hardly noticeable, and I believe I can get used to the tail over time… But I think… that I shall miss Virginia and the others the most… out of all of this. And Kaitlyn and Catherine… Catherine… It would not be right for me to love you anymore. When this mess is over, I hope you can still be happy, even if it is without me…

His hand, being lightly dragged across the surface of the mountain, touched sharp spines of a thin and decrepit aging bush, fused tightly to the surface of the rock face. It was devoid of water, and in an advanced state of decay, when Clive touched the plant, a great deal of loose and dried leaves fell off and sailed sadly to the ground, making a little pile. He raised an eyebrow, with those leaves gone, he could see some kind of hole hidden behind it, and a slight touch of wind on the back of his hand as he pulled the bush away indicated that the hole must lead to somewhere with a tiny breeze. "Geographically speaking, and according to my memory, this must lead inside the ruin…" He murmured, creating a theory. 

Stepping back a bit, he took a firmer grasp on the dead bush and ripped it out by the roots, giving him enough space for a better look. The area inside the hole was dark, and it was not helped by the fact that the land outside was slowly darkening as well. He needed a light. Clive turned and took out his good old trusty knife point, scratching a tiny little pentagram no larger than a medallion in the dirt. He placed one hand over the hex and summoned a small flicker of flame, scooping it up so that it hovered harmlessly above his palm and did no more than offer slight warmth and light. Kneeling so that he face was level with the entrance to the tunnel, Clive pushed his flame-bearing hand inside and checked the depth and width of the hole.

Some beetles and other insects scuttled away when exposed to the light, and he found out that the tunnel was a littler bigger than he thought, even though he could only see for about a meter or so inside. It was rocky and craggy, with spider webs everywhere, and right near the very entrance was a strip of torn clothing, the shred of a dark green bandanna. Clive picked it up and withdrew from the passageway, taking a closer look at the fabric. It looked, and _smelled_ like Romero's bandanna. So, they had passed through here. Clive knew that he would have to follow.

Thanking the gods that he was not a very broad person, Clive wriggled himself inside and felt the sharp peaks of rocks poking into his stomach and chest, slightly tearing at the fabric of his shirt. Pressing his elbows and his forearms into the ground, he slid them forward and dragged the rest of his body after him, hating the feeling of claustrophobia imposing on his mind from all sides. The tunnel was straight for about two metres or so, before it rose upwards a bit in a little arch, and that slight bit of ascent took Clive nearly ten minutes to crawl on through. Vacated cobwebs caught in his hair, clothes and the fur on his tail, making the drifter hope vehemently that no spiders lingered nearby. Even more so, he hoped that this tunnel had an _exit_, and that he had been correct in assuming the bandits had passed through here.

No, he _knew_ that he was correct. Clive, although his vision was severely impaired by the small cramped area, could smell some that of the more jagged shards of rock had dried blood smeared across the sharp bits, meaning he was heading in the right direction. It was from that abandoned blood that he _knew_ the personal signature of the bandits. Stopping a little to take a breather, Clive felt slightly ill from the lateness of the day, and exhaled a deep breath, small traces of exerted sweat beading on his skin.

__

I hope there is an exit… **Please **let there be an exit… I do not want to have to go out backwards… I will end up cutting myself raw…

Speaking of cutting himself, Clive had just enough visibility inside to check the accidental self-inflicted wound across the palm of his hand, the skin sliced through in a nice clean cut. Had he been human, the sting and irritation would have been very difficult to ignore. Blood had crusted up over some of the creases in his hand, but all that remained from the physical wound itself was just a thin red line. It was a little itchy, but that was probably just the dried blood, the demon making use of one of the sharp pieces of rock to scratch the coating off. Clive could hear his hear beating within his own chest, and not wanting to be stuck in such a small place for too long, he pushed himself forward once more.

Vaguely wondering how the bandits had made it through here in one piece, Clive shuffled over the arch and found that the tunnel went downwards from there, now having to hold himself back in order to refrain from slipping too far ahead. If he did, he'd shear great big holes into his front for sure. Moving his hands as best as he could, the drifter grabbed onto the jutting rocks and used them as handles to pull him down safely, taking his time to avoid any unnecessary scratching. Clive's eyes were well protected behind his glasses as a large cobweb stuck itself to his face, but he hardly noticed this because he could see an end to the tunnel, leading out into a wider space. The passageway was opening up on itself, and he now had the freedom to get up on his hands and knees instead of crawling around like a snake on it's belly.

He was incredibly grateful when the passage came to an end. Clive gripped the rocks framed around the opening and pulled himself out, grunting as a thick and bluntly bladed rock cut a long scratch down one of his arms. He could now breathe in the unrestricted air, now that the space around him had increased, and reserved about a minute or so in time for him to brush the dirt and cobwebs from out of his red coat, also shaking the remainder out of his hair and fur. Clive sneezed, and then sniffed. He hoped he was not catching a cold, if that were possible. _Could_ demons catch a cold? Hopefully not.

This place did not feel right. The actual site he was standing upon used to be classified as a Guardian shrine, and while he was equipped with a suitable medium, the power from his ark scepter would always send him a telepathic evaluation of the area's spiritual well being. It never failed. Clive closed his eyes and released the barriers of his mind, trying to empty his mind of all valid thought. It was very difficult, especially in his current situation, but he somehow managed to hold the sensation, just for a few short seconds. A slight white glow outlined his figure as the ark scepter activated, fading soon after. He took a breath, and understood. There was some kind of… _imprint_ on this place, something extremely bad had happened here in the past, and he himself had been one of the deciding factors in it's execution. The power of the medium, he could feel the shock, he could hear the cries made… over a decade ago…

__

"…Biggs! …Wedge?! …Goddamn it, you two! **Answer me!** You cannot be dead!"

"Cather…ine? What is… what is… wrong with me? I cannot see… Why can't I see?! …Catherine… Oh my gods, no…"

One of the voices had been his own. He could hear another, but anything else had just been incoherent screaming. Some of the frequencies had been weaker than others, differentiated by gaps in time, maybe even by thousands of years. This shrine must have also had a sacrificial altar somewhere in it's vicinity, perhaps where unwilling devotees or slaves had been sacrificed? Clive felt cold all of a sudden, like somebody had just brushed his cheek with an ice-cold hand. This place, it stank of pain and loss.

"Only humans could have committed such crimes… They are the ultimate incarnation of hypocrisy in this reality…" Clive muttered, coming out of his very light trance. The first time he had been here, it had been so remarkably beautiful that it simply took his breath away, which did not happen often. He was only a fledgling archaeologist and drifter back then, but Clive knew a rare site when he saw it. In fact, he remembered that some of the back chambers had been nearly half a _mile_ wide in diameter, with ceilings so high that it could not be seen. It had all been carved out of solid stone. He wondered, upon finally returning to this place, if some of the chambers like that still existed.

__

Probably not, by the way **I** fouled things up… Blowing up the wall, what was I thinking? I had no idea… that it was maintaining the entire site's structural integrity… I was hotheaded, and look at what it brought to us…If I had only **checked** the architectural type like Catherine had told me to…None of this ever would have happened…

Clive stepped away from the entrance to the tunnel, before freezing as he realized that something was tugging on a memory in the back of his mind, an important indicator of the past, whether it be a distant memory, or the happenings of only a few days ago. Clive could sense an aura somewhere in the shrine, and though distorted, he knew undoubtedly who it was. How in Filgaia could he forget? The distortion was a little disturbing, making it slightly different from the one he could remember from near Jolly Roger, and _worlds_ away from it's innocent counterpart of about twenty years ago. It _felt_ like Ravendor, but the signature was a little off, just _wrong_. Nearby, he could sense a weaker one, too far away and faint for him to analyze it further, but he could tell within the blink of an eye that it was…

"Kaitlyn!" Clive cried, hearing his voice echo loudly across the ancient stone. She was here! She was nearby! Forgetting to be careful, he randomly picked one of the corridors extending from the chamber he was currently in and ran to it, not bothering to check and see if it was the correct one. The shrine had been like a maze _before_ the explosion, now it would be nearly _impossible_ to navigate without proper aid. Clive was equipped with this aid, but paternal instinct had banished the thoughts from his head. He would regret it later.

Outside, the world had darkened, heralding twilight. A cloud drifted away from it's former position in the inky blackness of the sky, uncloaking the round fullness of a silvery full moon. Rock and earth could not hide him from it's influence, and Clive felt the presence just the same. The muscles in his legs tightened, forcing him to trip over, and pain once again flooded through his system. He knew what was happening the moment they had begun to occur. His time had just run out.

"N-no…" He panted, hating autumn and it's early sunsets, "N-nott… yettt…. N-n-nott… nrowww…" The power of the moon was burning itself into his yielding body, Clive resisted all he could, but he was fighting a losing battle. Slowly, and in the midst of his suffering, Clive pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the side of the cave wall, gasping like he had just ran without a rest for hours on end. He _willed_ himself to stay the same, using up all the power he had, and at a sloth's pace, he staggered down the corridor, _somehow_ continuing to retain his current form. He _fought_ with all his heart and soul, and was managing to postpone the transformation, though it tortured every nerve as if it was burning in a hellish fire.

The curse was finally near completion.


	57. Purgatory

Kaitlyn was dragged down the corridor, roughly being hauled along by Romero's less than careful hands, the little girl taking irregular steps that were frequently interrupted by times when she was literally pulled off her feet. Everything was rushing through her head at a mile a minute, thoughts and feelings, some of them despair and betrayal. She thought she knew what Ravendor's intents had been, from the kidnapping, it's purpose, but Kaitlyn had no idea that it directly involved her father. There were so many things she didn't know, and she was loath to admit that she was just an insignificant little girl, unable to help at all. Kaitlyn started to cry silently as she was being pulled, trying her best to keep up with Romero's pace.

Romero in turn was heading down the winding passageway just like he was ordered to, ignoring all the other branching tunnels and sticking to the path laid out ahead of him, his breathing quickened by his fast motion. Dario was several paces away, nowhere near as healthy as he was and lagging behind. Kaitlyn was between them, in that large gap, protected by both a front and rear guard. The passageway had large boulders blocking certain portion of the path, though they did not cause an absolute blockage, it was a great hassle to have to weave his way around them, trying to keep Kaitlyn from tripping over. He glanced to the sides a couple of times, a slight change in the colouration of the walls attracting his attention. They had been stony grey before, and now, here and there, they sported dark lines of deep brown running like veins through the solid stone, bearing both a different colour and texture.

A closer look showed that they were the dead trunks of _trees_ embedded into the stone, acting as load bearers to keep the walls straight and strong. Probably, ages ago, they might have been alive and lit up the shrine with organic beauty, but now all they did was offer a good way to hold up a dead ruin. Romero didn't care about this, anyway. _He_ was not an archaeologist, or some chump with too much spare time to learn about crap like that. He had _better_ things to do, like making money and staying alive. Romero yanked on Kaitlyn's arm again, silently telling her to pick up the pace, getting a small cry of pain from her as a result. Between breaths, he grinned. Good, make her feel pain, let her know who was dragging who around. She was just some dumb kid, anyhow, the only people who seemed to give a damn about her were gone, off in their own little ventures.

Romero had a thought, and skidded to a halt, Kaitlyn similarly putting on the brakes and bumping into his side. She was crying and panting, confused over Ravendor's intents, her father's supposed appearance, and what exactly was going on in general. The one-eyed bandit looked behind both of them, counted to twenty, and discovered that they were no longer being followed by Dario, wherever the other bandit had gone off to. That retard, couldn't he even follow his lead? Even an eight year old _girl_ had managed to keep up with him. Romero cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered; "DARIO?! YOU HERE?!" No reply. He waited twenty seconds, and tried again. His voice echoed throughout the ruin, Romero guessed that if he had been nearby, he should have heard it, but still got no answer. They had been separated.

"I… I wanna go home…" Kaitlyn whispered between her tears, holding both her hands to her face to keep the tears from spilling out. With nobody else to cling to, she hugged Romero's side, dampening his clothes with quiet sobs and sniffles. "I don't like this anymore… I wanna go home…" She repeated, gasping a little in surprise as Romero roughly pried her away. Looking up at the adult, something inside her heart went cold. She didn't like the way he was grinning at her, lecherous and immoral, his one good eye glinting in the weak light.

"Guess what?" He smirked, grabbing her crudely by the shoulder, amused by the short squeal of pain and alarm. "This place is a maze, and nobody else is here with us, no-one at all. It would take… I dunno… at least ten minutes for someone to find us, and that's plenty of time, for me, at least." Leaning over, he brushed a strand of golden hair behind her ear, feeling Kaitlyn shake under his hands. She was petrified. "Daddy and your so called Uncle aren't here to save you now, sweetie." A few more tears escaped, and Kaitlyn tried to step back, to no avail. His last words scared her in a way she never thought possible, her blood turning to ice. "You're mine, for now."

The layout of the caverns was in a perfect design for sound to be amplified, precisely where the two people had been standing. When Kaitlyn screamed, _everybody_ in the ruin heard it, and it cut through their souls like a reaper's scythe. 

Romero laughed.

xxx

Dario hit a wall. Not literally, of course, though with the bandit's usual dexterity, it could easily happen. Actually, the bandit had come to a wall when he knew he should not have, and when he put his thick hands to the wall and pushed, he got no physical reaction except for a few small stones rolling away and into niches elsewhere. This place was packed up even tighter than the obstruction his boss had destroyed, it almost seemed like it had been neatly cemented together. Dario made up his mind on the spot; he was not supposed to be there. Turning, he couldn't see any of the others near him either, they must have taken a different path. He was lost.

The bearded bandit ran back up to the intersection he had taken, trying to judge which passageway was the main one. They were so difficult to differentiate, and the lack of light within the area made it no easier. He didn't even know which direction he had come from. North was south, west was east, up was down and he cursed, pulling on the collar of his shirt. Why did he have to mess up _now?_ Especially when Romero was the only other person watching Kaitlyn?

Kaitlyn?

Somehow, he was not surprised when he heard the girl scream. When Romero had a chance, he _took_ it. Swearing, Dario picked out a corridor using the universally accepted method of 'eeney meeny miney mo', and ran down it as fast as his legs could carry him, hoping that it was time for his lucky break. Antonio had said that this place had _miles_ of tunnels all around it, he didn't want to be lost for all eternity.

But, thinking one step at a time, he ran after their hostage first.

xxx

The sensation was like being permanently poisoned, when he took a step, the blood circulating through his legs were like razor blades, cutting and shearing his inner workings without remorse. Clive sweated profusely, trying his hardest to prevent the fur from appearing all over his skin, and hugging the wall like the last crutch he had left in the world. His glasses had fogged up from the sweat, so he used up a huge amount of energy to pocket them, his hands clenching as he felt the rest of his teeth begin to elongate and resemble his already deadly sharp canine fangs, and whimpered slightly as the shape of his skeleton slowly shifted into something else. No numbing sensation settled over him this time, it was all painfully there for him to feel, every little bit of the transformation.

"I… I carran't… straaay… rike thris furrr… murch ronger…" He rasped, between the vocal dialects of both wolf and human. Clive uttered a sad cry as his body tensed, tossing his head back and whimpering like a frightened animal as he was jabbed by a million needles across every inch of his skin, the fur emerging in a wave of intense suffering. Crying, Clive slumped against the wall and rested for a few seconds, trying to regain the incentive to push on further. He raised a hand to his cheek, though it was more like a deadly claw, and whimpered some more, trying to say something coherent, but having it come out as a garbled mess. He _was_ a mess, and no matter how much he tried to fight it, he already knew who would win. The curse… The full moon was just too powerful for him to fight, he couldn't _possibly_ win.

__

I came so close… and got so far… But I failed. I **always** fall short right at the crucial moment… Always… I am worthless. I cannot even save my own daughter! Gods damn it, I do not even deserve to **live** after all I have done… I am a murderer… a failure as a father… I should just **die**…

Clive, in total lycan form, leant against the wall and breathed heavily, holding the back of one of his claws over his eyes. A short amount of time passed, and the lycan creature let out a sob, an undeniably _human_ sob. Sinking slowly to his feet, the creature curled up into the tightest ball he could muster and cried, using up the last of his human conscience in remorse, mourning. He made no sound, except for a few quiet sobs, and the sound of rocks rolling underneath his body as he shook with sadness. He knew, after that moment, that the voice inside his head was right. Kaitlyn _was_ going to die, and if not by the bandits, then by he himself. There was nothing more he could do.

After four days immersed in his own Hell, Clive Winslett finally gave up.

When he blacked out, the last thing he thought was a wish for his own death.

xxx

It was a replay, but with slight differences. First, a feeling of disorientation, and then a slow awakening, in the midst of a dream that he had experienced before. Clive was falling again, though that same unlimited expanse of air, but his breath did not rise, his heart did not beat, he could not register a pulse. This was a dream world, that same dream, and nothing really needed to make sense. His body felt warm, though his heart and soul were frozen in ice, pain within numbness, sadness within paradise. Clive knew this was a place of peace, not suffering, but his own accursed soul had brought pain into the veritable Garden of Eden. He opened his eyes, and tried to breathe, somehow not surprised that he was unable to draw breath.

__

Falling… again? But this feels different… this time…

The air, and my body… feels very warm…

… But my heart feels so cold inside… and somewhat… empty.

Clive knew without a doubt that something invariably bad had just happened, filled with pain, but just like the transience of a fading dream, he only had the slightest notions of what that bad thing was. His ears registered the whistling of the wind as he passed steadily down, pulled by gravity, and yet somehow floating, not falling. When Clive opened his eyes, he realised several things all at once, making him uneasy, disoriented, severely confused. This was not just a dream, it was a _memory_. It had happened to him before, but not in the dream world. Clive strained to remember the thoughts that he had lost.

His cheek lightly stung with a ghostly flare of pain, almost like a reminder of who he was. Clive touched two fingers to the area of pain and traced a small cut that had been well on it's way to healing. It was the scratch that Luceid had given Boomerang during a training session before the metal demon journeyed to Ka Dingel. Why did he bear a similar mark?

Removing his hand, he gently held it out in front of his face, his eyes narrowing as he noticed his dark skin tone, and that he bore a great many calluses over his palms from years of training to fight with a sharp-bladed weapon. His body felt bulky, because he was wearing sturdy armor over a white ninja gi, and he could guess that he had dark hair and crimson red eyes. This was undoubtedly Boomerang's body. But for the first time, Clive had control over his movements and actions, even though this body was not his. Was this how Boomerang felt like when he so saw fit to occupy Clive's original body?

__

… Why am I like this? What has happened? Why does this… feel so familiar?

He felt a dull ache all over his body, and all over his armor were huge gashes and cuts in the metal, the protective gear mangled from some kind of intense battle. Some places had burn marks from exposure to incredible temperatures, and underneath the armor, his gi was stained black with copious amounts of demon blood, seeping into the cloth and slicking the wounded parts of his body with oil. The armor over his chest had a clean-cut hole in the center, where a long sharp sword stab had pierced his body without mercy. His helmet was nowhere to be found, probably lost somewhere. Clive groaned, feeling hardly any pain, but simply knowing that the wounds were there was enough of a reminder to make him hurt.

__

That fight… with those three humans… and the horde of demons afterwards… nearly destroyed this body. And… Boomerang… did it destroy him too?

The descent was becoming more noticeable, and by a slight change in the atmosphere, the air was slowly getting warmer. Clive felt a huge heavy weight in his right hand, dragging him down and being a general nuisance. What was he carrying? As he moved his right arm just so that he could grip the object with both hands, they held onto a dark brown leather grip, new and barely used. It was a sword, he was holding onto a sword, Boomerang's sword, Dark Guardian Blade. It was back, huge, clunky and heavy, but enchantingly carved and deadly in battle. The Ka Dingel design on the flat of the blade was smeared in drying demon's blood, not Clive's own, but the life fluid of those hordes of winged demon drones, now stone dead by his hand. Although he had fallen, he had taken a great many with him to the grave.

The blade was far too heavy for him to handle, weighing down his arms and threatening to injure him further. Clive's arms were weak from the battle, and some of the tendons had been cut by the razor-sharp nails of the drone demons. If he wanted to continue his peaceful descent, he would have to let go of the sword. It was not his, anyway, it was Boomerang's, and so Boomerang shall have it, Clive didn't even want to touch the thing. It had been heavy enough in his other dream, he didn't want to have to carry that heavy weight from dream to dream, perhaps even indefinitely. He removed one of his hands, inclining his sword arms away from his falling body, about to let go, then-

__

"Don't drop the sword!" A voice from within the deepest reaches of his heart cried, with a conviction like no other, _"I have lost her once, I do not want to lose her again! Clive, whatever you do, don't drop her!"_

Without really thinking, he complied, retaining a firm grip on the handle of the blade. Clive could feel the muscles in his wounded arms strain to keep the sword from being pulled away, as if an outside force was trying to suck the weapon out of the sky. After a while, he _knew_ this to be true, he could feel the unknown force battling with him for the possession of the blade. Clive uttered a word that he would have never said near any of his friends or family and held on, a desperate sense of attachment settling over him in regards to the weapon. It was _his,_ Luceid had given it to him, along with her heart. He would not just throw that away so easily!

**__**

Is this familiar to you, Clive Winslett? That same beautiful, angelic voice, the voice of his dreams, and the one heard on the train whispered softly into his mind. **_Do you not remember this, do you not remember me? Do you remember your promise, my dear, sweet Boomerang…?_**

The voice emanated from the sword, it was not just a weapon, it was a _link_, he was bonded to the sword, in mind and spirit, intensely, passionately, he could never let go. Not of the weapon, or of Boomerang, or Luceid, or any of the words, thoughts, feelings, emotions and tears shed over a thousand years ago before his birth. It was so distant, yet so close. Clive could feel the temperature of the air reach an unbearable degree, sweat beginning to bead over his brow and the cool metal finish of his armor beginning to heat up. Finally, Clive understood.

He leant his head back, so he could see the ground immediately underneath him, where the great scorching heat permeated from. This was Boomerang's memory, a memory after a life, where he could not live or breathe or even let go. This was limbo in it's judgmental whole, a period between life and death. When the horde of demons had torn Boomerang's meager body to a thousand shreds, and burnt out the fires of desire once and for all, he had still, in his quiet, yet fierce love for Luceid, managed to keep her blade close to his soul, so that they would be forever intertwined, and never separated again. In this way, Boomerang could say that he truly loved her, even as an accursed demon, and die without regret. He was, after all, still with her, despite death.

This was his fate.

Purgatory.

Though he knew what was going to happen, Clive helplessly flailed as the burning fire and brimstone seethed and smoldered underneath him, the heated earth cracking and spreading open an orifice that would surely catch him with teeth and tongues of ravenous flame, wrapping him up tightly and sending him to the deepest bowels of Hell. Boomerang had sinned, innumerably so, and by dying, it was time for him to atone for his past mistakes. Shaking his head wildly, Clive knew that as he bore Boomerang's body, he would fall with him, and share the same punishment, the same fate. He held onto the sword like a lifeline and wished desperately that this nightmare would finally end.

__

…Boomerang! Clive shrieked, the earth rapidly approaching his borrowed body, _Let me go! I AM NOT YOU!_

A pause, and then a quiet, almost paradoxical reply. Boomerang and Luceid both smiled in his mind.

**__**

"…Are you?" They replied in question.

The moment Clive hit the fire, long spindly arms with many flexible fingers of grasping power, built out of the inferno itself, snared his armor and melted it upon the touch, wrapping itself around the struggling initiate into the burning realm, gasping out a hiss of some demonic serpent, eyes glowing in the shadows of baking red and black embers, where the cruelest of tortures lurked in wait. Tears were evaporated instantly after they were spilled from his eyes, all the strength from his body dissolving in the hopelessness of Hell. A voice whispered to him through the agony, with a liquidity akin to deadly poison. **_Atonement through the suffering of one's own sin, to be empathetic, to experience that which you have inflicted upon others, an irony which will be a salvation. Boomerang Flash, we will burn the transgression out of your soul, we will put that burning flame of desire… out…_**

From the burning coals emerged the likeness of a great monster, serpentine, elongated, with a forked tongue of poisoned fire, fangs deadlier than the deadliest night, coloured an absolute black, a darkness from which nothing could escape. A black hole. Hissing low and threateningly, it extended itself upwards to where Clive was being tortured, and opened it's great mouth wide, welcoming the metal demon into Hell, his new home.

Clive screamed bloody murder, he screamed his throat raw, recoiling from the scene and uttering one last yell that was of hysteria and regret… 

xxx

… And from out of that frightened cry, Clive mimicked the action in the _real_ world, but it came out as a long and angered howl, the sound reverberating off the closed stone walls. Before, it had sounded like it had a touch of a human voice somewhere within it, now it just sounded entirely lupine, with no hint to give that the owner of the voice had once been human. Clive was leaning against the wall on his shoulder, barely able to stand up under his own willpower, and panting heavily. The pain from his transformation had faded, but the sense of disorientation had not left yet. _Nothing_ of Clive's mind now resided within the beast, it had faded in the molten fire of his dream, sent to his own aspect of hell, leaving a perfectly good animal mind to take over control in the meantime.

It was now almost impossible to tell that only four short days ago, this creature had once been such a gentle and caring human being. Blood and murder were on his mind right now, hunger and anger, for he still had the distinct feeling that he was here for a reason, one that had not been determined in his mind. Was this a good hunting ground, maybe? Were there any she-wolves around to be had? The beast slid off the side of the wall and dropped to all fours, feeling more comfortable to walk in this manner. He could smell humans and other things here in this cave, and although he was confused by his location, it would not stop him in the least.

Somewhere in the caverns, a little girl screamed.

His ears picked this sound up instantly, and his fang-filled maws adjusted itself in the semblance of a corrupted grin. Children were small, but they still had a fair bit of meat on their frames, and they were also quite easy to corner and kill, even if a wolf was to find himself alone. He would not require a pack to command in order to take down this quarry, just a little bit of stealth and surprise. The beast growled, the noise soon becoming a pleased snarl, he could almost taste the child's blood already, little children would be so tender and _sweet_…

The monster loped off down the corridor, beginning the hunt.


	58. The Path To Yesterday

Gallows's water medium came in quite handy for their uses, the Baskar priest holding his closed hands over the small ceramic cup, a faint icy-blue glow pulsing underneath his palms, directly interfacing with the liquid stored within. He made sure that the refrigerate arcana was unfocussed and weak, if he cast too powerfully, he might freeze the hard-earned antidote instead of just cooling it down. They had to speed things up, for the sun had already just gone down, signalling the beginning of Clive's final transformation. The potion had settled into it's absolute state, a thin liquid that had separated from the more solid mass at the bottom of the cup, maintaining a pure light blue colour.

When the last amounts of steam had departed from the air around the container, Gallows removed his hands and stepped away, allowing space for Halle to get in, the old woman holding something that looked foreign to everybody except for Jet, and this in turn made the boy uneasy. In his murky earliest memories of the past, he had learnt to _loathe_ instruments like that. Unsurprisingly, Jet awkwardly moved away when he recognized the tool in Halle emaciated hand to be a long barrelled syringe, tipped with a wicked-looking needle. This tool was not generally used by the Baskar people, but recently, as civilization and it's advances had begun to expand, even the separatist colony of Baskar had to make a few changes.

Halle stuck the end of the needle into the cooled-down liquid, hooking her gnarled thumb under the catch at the end and drawing it upwards, the empty barrel of the syringe slowly filling with the watery antidote. Isolated from the rest of the concoction, and seen clearly in it's new container through the firelight from under the workbench, the special substance seemed to bear a pale glow, like the silvery face of the full moon. The elder flicked the side of the syringe to let all the tiny little air bubbles out, and applied the slightest pressure to the end of the catch, minute drops of the antidote collecting at the tip of the needle. Satisfied, Halle set the syringe in a small wooden case, just big enough to fit the tool inside, and snapped the hinged lid closed, the task complete. Almost ceremoniously, she passed the box to Catherine, who accepted it with reverence.

"The rest is up to you drifters." The old woman announced solemnly, lowering her hands after the gift had been given and finding her walking stick once more. "Whether you can, or whether you will save him is entirely up to you, the power of your determination, and the limits of your strength. The road you have walked is undoubtedly a difficult one, and it will get even tougher still. This is your choice, but…" She focussed her gaze on Catherine, who looked the most resolved of them all. "A wise person once said that the beginning of a journey can start at the very last stop. Remember that things are always at their worst, before they can be at their best. Take care and _don't_ stumble," She turned to Gallows, "This means you, get it?"

Gallows saluted. "Yes, Ma'am!"

Unable to help herself, Virginia laughed at Gallows's cheerful expression, finding a little bit of relief in the motion. Shane strode up to her and pressed a shining red orb into the drifter leader's hands, the young boy smiling cheerfully. "Here is your teleport orb back. I'm very sorry, I helped myself to it while you were all so busy, and I managed to recharge it for you. It should work one more time now, regardless of the month. I hope you can use it to find your friend." Shane bowed slightly in support. "This is what I can give to you, my blessing and a method of transportation. I will pray to the Guardians for your success, and for the soul of your friend. As a pillar for this planet, and as a human being, it is the least I can do." Shane knew that the lycan would need all the prayer he could get.

Catherine couldn't help but comment. "I find it rather strange," She whispered, "That so many people, friends and loved ones, would pray for the soul of a demon to be saved." The ex-drifter shook her head, "If only he knew how many people loved him… What we are willing to do for him… How hard we have tried…" Taking a deep breath, she continued, looking up at them with a firm expression. "That is why we must succeed. I do not care what he is right now, truth be told, he could be the Devil himself and I would not care. But, with all this pain… I will not let him feel pain anymore, not without me there to share it with him."

"That is exactly the attitude you need in order to save him." Halle pointed out, inputting the conversation. "He will have no humanity left, it is your duty to _be_ that humanity for him. Your husband is in a faraway place, dearie, further away than the furthest star, sleeping somewhere where physical action cannot touch him. You must call his mind back, to the plane of Filgaia, only you can do it, Catherine. You are the only one he can trust the purest part of his soul with, the last grain of his untainted heart. He can give it to no other, except for the one he loves most."

"I know." She replied, her eyes misted over with suppressed tears. "He is lost now, along roads that would scare me deeply to tread, but I swear that I will bring him back home. Even if," Though she was smiling, Catherine sniffed from cloaked sadness, "Even if the light in his heart has gone out, my love will somehow light the way. I am assured of this, without hesitation." Keeping a hold on the precious antidote, she turned to the wall and picked up the discarded sniper rifle ARM, slinging it across her shoulder calmly. It was still loaded with the silver bullets, just to be safe. If anything went wrong, or if the antidote failed, Catherine was prepared to switch back to plan A, she would execute him without indecision, knowing she had done all she could. If anything, she would end his suffering swiftly.

"Though I hate to butt in on this sap-fest," Jet interrupted with the passive wave of his hand, "I need to ask you all somethin'. Uh, exactly _where_ would Ravendor hide out at, and where do you reckon Clive would first head for? How do we know they're in the same place? Do we even know where they _are_?" It was indeed a good question, and it definitely stumped Gallows and Virginia for a little while.

"Trust me," Catherine answered, opening the front door, "Clive and Ravendor _will_ be in the exact same place. I know where they are. It is the place where so much was taken from all of us. Clive's eyesight, my career, and nearly Ravendor's life. It is the crux of conflict; the place where it all began, and where it all shall end. I know both of them enough to consider this true. It is the _only_ place they would be." Virginia held out the red glowing teleport orb, where each different drifter placed one hand upon it's smooth round surface. Baskar Colony was like a holy ground, so the spell of teleportation would work easily in the area. The Maxwell gang said their final goodbyes to the elder and the pillar with a dutiful nod of their heads in unison, receiving a bow in return. It was now time for them to face their destiny. Catherine said the location of the ruin like one who could never forget it's name, to activate the magic from her old memories, burnt into her mind by a bitter experience.

"X: 20473 Y:8649. Please, take us there."

A light flashed for the span of a second, making it impossible to see. Shane and Halle had to shield their eyes, and when the light was gone, so to had their friends.

xxx

Heading in a different direction from the rest of the bandit team, Ravendor took a hidden path concealed by the constant collection of shadows lurking in the corner of the chamber. He navigated mostly through memory other than sight, counting every thudding step he took and guessing his precise position in the ruin. Clive had arrived a little too early than he had anticipated, and Ravendor was not totally prepared for their confrontation just yet. Protectively, he held his bandaged arm close to his stomach, where it could not be harmed, for he had not fully regenerated into his original form. He would need it in order to destroy the other drifter, to give him a death as messy and as painful as possible. By ceasing to take his medication, the process of recession had begun.

He breathing was quickened by running so fast, hearing a slight change of air pressure as he passed another branching tunnel, ignoring all other paths except for his own. When he heard Kaitlyn's loud piercing scream echo throughout the ruin, he put on the brakes and skidded to an abrupt halt, a little winded, but composed enough to look through the shadows calmly. Why did she scream? Had Clive reached her already? No, if that were so, then she would probably not sound so fearful. The two bandits should have been taking care of her, were they slacking off already? Ravendor remembered they way Romero had been looking at Kaitlyn, and his hands clenched in anger, green eyes narrowing in a poisonous rage. Kaitlyn was to be a hostage, not a victim of abuse!

A light sound of somebody dropping down to the floor with cat-like grace was heard, and the fluttering of black raven wings. Antonio and Kestorael stood at attention in front of him, the former saluting with a militaristic air. The tunnel they were in had a high ceiling, and above the area of the floor, a ridge running in the middle of the wall was the place where Antonio chose to tread, undetected by anybody else. Kestorael went along for the ride, trying to be as helpful as he could. "Boss!" Antonio cried, looking as serious as he could. "You hear that? I think that chica be-"

"I know." Ravendor replied in a dull tone. "I know." He strode over to the small man, looking down on him with a grim expression. "I loathe this, I cannot even trust my own minions. Antonio, let us go and find them. If Romero has done anything to her… I will not be responsible for my own actions." He turned and started to walk down the tunnel again, before looking back at the smaller bandit and changing his mind. "Wait," Ravendor said, "I have a better idea. You and Kestorael go your own separate ways to her, and I will take my own. It will be easier for us both." Antonio was blank for a short while, then nodded and jumped backwards, his fingers catching on the long loose roots of trees fused into the wall, scrambling upwards like a spider with Kestorael flying close behind. Ravendor waited until the two were well on their way, sighing and turning on his heel to the wall, where an inviting shadow awaited his direction.

He felt the shadows embrace him like a long lost lover, drawing him close. In the span of time between the two places of transmission, Ravendor took the deepest breath he could, inhaling pure darkness. It was intoxicating and wonderful, a thousand times purer than oxygen or untainted water. It picked up his failing strength, and let him move onwards. He had to see what was wrong.

xxx

The little girl was thrown into the wall, a curt squeal of pain being uttered before she was grabbed roughly by the arm and pulled to her feet. The way Romero was holding her wrist made it so that she was constantly on her tip-toes, and unable to balance herself properly. Like this, she couldn't properly fight back or struggle very well, at the mercy of the one-eyed bandit. Romero, for one, liked to see the girl get hurt, tossing her around a bit and smacking her face, just strong enough that it might leave her a bruise for a few days. Little girls were always treated like tiny princesses, why not see one belittled for once? To be made to grovel and cry? Then, after that, he could have a little bit more _serious_ fun with her, because she would be much too tired out to fight back, anyway. Romero grinned, he was such a genius.

This fairly moderate game went on for a few minutes until he got bored of her crying and the attempts to wrench herself away, finally tossing Kaitlyn into a little niche in the tunnel, her golden hair flecked with specks of dirt and dust. Her blue dress was filthy, and she looked unmistakably tortured. Curling up, she cradled her head in her arms and cried, the cry becoming a scream as Romero grabbed one of her wrists and pinning it to the wall, doing the same with the other only moments later. Giving it her best shot, Kaitlyn screamed again and managed to kick Romero squarely in the face, trying to make the bad man go away. She was positive that something horrible was about to happen.

Then, there was a sudden flash of white and black, followed by something sharp. It was Romero's time to scream, and he was knocked away, hitting the opposite wall audibly. As he landed, he landed on his feet, and recovered quickly, merely taking a disoriented step away from the wall and looking for his attacker, who retaliated swiftly. There was another flash of motion, which started low and flew diagonally to bypass Romero's shoulder, hitting him in the face. Blood flowed from a wound, and he fell flat on his back, out of the action. Ravendor adjusted his jacket, shaking the tension out of his fist. He had arrived just in time, by the looks of it. Kneeling, he turned to Kaitlyn and touched her shoulder, trying to discern if she was okay or not.

Kaitlyn whimpered sadly, crawling into Ravendor's arms and clinging there, sobbing. The bandit leader was so surprised by the motion that he did not push the girl away as he might have done, but gently patted her on the back and allowed the small girl to cry. Kaitlyn tried to murmur something through her tears, but this only lead to uneven hiccups, which complicated the situation even more. Hesitantly, Ravendor reached his hand up and lightly stroked Kaitlyn's soft golden hair, brushing the dust and dirt out, attempting to calm her down. Gradually, minute by minute, the girl quietened down until she was nearly silent, except for her audible breaths. "If you are able, please answer me." Ravendor said very carefully. "Kaitlyn, tell me what Romero has done to you."

"He, he, he…" She stuttered like a broken record, unable to finish. Sobbing one more time, Kaitlyn looked up at Ravendor and wiped the tears from her face, a light shadow of a large bruise beginning to manifest on one of her cheeks. It looked like Kaitlyn had been struck, several times, and probably, worse had followed after that. With the back of his hand, he touched the bruise, and she shivered. She did not deserve this. What exactly did that blonde bandit do to her? Anger built itself up inside him, and he set Kaitlyn down on the floor, the girl immediately shuffling up close to the wall, huddling tightly with her thin arms around her knees.

Romero, still lying on his back on the ground, drew a hand across his brow and felt the stickiness of blood on his fingertips, leaking from a long gash close to one of his eyebrows. Ravendor approached and leaned over him, the bandages wrapped around the bandit leader's hand slightly stained with Romero's blood. Ravendor had cut him, deeply. One or two of his fingers had burst through the bindings, or more accurately, had sheared through them. What he had left was not reminiscent of a human hand at all, but a scary kind of dark-plated claw, not thick and cumbersome, but thinner and needle-like, similar to the sharpness of wickedly thin blades. Only two fingers were exposed, but that was enough to frighten Romero out of his skin.

When Ravendor reached down and yanked Romero to his feet with those same claws, the one-eyed bandit nearly wet himself. The dark-haired man seemed to have murder in his eyes, pressing the knife-like nails into the soft flesh of his neck, only shallowly, but deep enough to draw a moderate amount of blood. Electricity crackled along his arms, threatening to pass from body to body. "Give me a reason why I should not just kill you, here and now." Ravendor spat, increasing his grip and making Romero choke.

"I-I didn't do anything! I mean, well, not the kind of thing you're probably thinkin' about! B-Boss! Don't hurt me… please… ugh… let me go!" Romero wailed, his sentences punctuated with wheezing gasps as his throat was slowly being constricted. He struggled for a few brief seconds of helplessness, then just let his body go limp, trails of red blood seeping into his green bandanna. Ravendor was undecided, and then spun himself around and slammed Romero into the wall as hard as he could, small chunks of rock rattling loose from the impact. Romero groaned loudly, his head lolling slightly to one side.

Lowering the bandit a little so the man's feet could now touch the ground, Ravendor pressed Romero further into the wall so that the man could find breathing simply impossible. Romero's one good eyes was wide, every tiny intake of air was a struggle for life. Ravendor was throttling him to death. The dark-haired man smiled, but no warmth was conveyed in it, it was hollow, just a motion without feeling. "Innocence is a rarity in this foul, decaying world." He said softly, without any anger. Sometimes acting calm could be even scarier than anger in the first place. "I will not have it lost or taken away. She is a child, she can barely defend herself. She is innocent!" Some of his anger began to return. "You miserable cur! I should destroy you!" Romero felt a tingle of electricity pass through his body, making all his nerves twitch painfully. With that pulse came a horrible feeling of cold in all his limbs, and a temporary loss of vision. It felt as if pure darkness was being pumped directly into his soul.

Dario burst into the scene through the entrance, breathing like he had been running in some kind of marathon. The first thing he noticed was Romero slowly being strangled, and he raced over to both the bandit and his boss, confused as hell. "Boss? What the? What're you doing?! What's going on?!" The emergence of a new voice seemed to snap Ravendor out of his anger, and he dropped Romero out of reflex, the blonde-haired man sliding down the wall and throwing himself onto his hands and knees, taking huge gasping breaths. Sharp slivers of rock from the broken wall bit into his palms, but Romero did not notice them, just glad to be out of Ravendor's grip.

Ravendor, in turn, felt an intense jab of pain shoot through his body, stumbling backwards and off his feet, forced into a short coughing fit. The expulsion of anger had triggered something, and he felt his wings grow slightly in length. Soon, he would be unable to hide them under his long jacket as he had done for the entire day, and he would no longer be himself anymore. Ravendor Begucci would slowly lose control, and Project Dark Angel would most likely take over. If that were so, Ravendor needed that power to be directed precisely at Clive Winslett, not his blameless daughter. If Kaitlyn was going to remain safe, he had to get away from her, as soon as possible.

"Dario." Ravendor breathed harshly, just able to stand, one hand weakly grasping his shoulder and the other clenched in pain. "Do not let Kaitlyn out of your sight, do not leave her alone with _anyone_. I have to… leave now… I will be back when the time is right…" He limped over to a wall, leaning against it and panting. "Get ready for a fight, you may have to enter battle soon. See to it… that nobody hurts her…" He fell backwards, into the void of a shadow, and disappeared. Dario, still confused, was smart enough to obey as much of the semi-coherent order as possible, seeing to a crying child and leave Romero alone to recover.

He untangled Kaitlyn from her fetal position and she hugged the bearded bandit in unconditional fear, shaking. Her small voice was a tremor, and her soft grey eyes were tumultuous with unknown sadness. "Mister Dario…" She sobbed, clinging onto his dirty white shirt for dear life. "Uncle Ravendor, he's sick. I know he is. I touched him, and something happened, and… and… I know he's sick. I just do! Mister Dario!" Her voice was practically a shriek now. "I can see it! I know it! Uncle Ravendor is… he is…" 

Kaitlyn felt something. It was not known to her before, but it felt old, much older than her, and powerful. It was almost… like a distant memory. It was like… some kind of strange bond, as if she had known Ravendor from sometime before, in a place she couldn't remember. There was something else she could feel, though new, a powerful bond had already somehow formed, built on that ancient past. Kaitlyn felt it, just as Catherine felt Clive's pain. For the briefest of seconds, she could remember somebody else… Somebody who had been very close to him… Her old… self…

A girl from seventeen years ago. A girl… that he had loved…

Her voice softened to a breathy whisper, her body going limp. 

"He is…Uncle Ravendor is going to die…"


	59. The Beast

The two bandits continued along the path that Ravendor had instructed them to follow, both saying nothing about what had happened earlier. Dario was tactfully ignoring it as he carried Kaitlyn with him, the girl still upset over what Romero had done to her, and the other bandit scuffed his shoes nearly a pace behind, on Dario's left side, hands sullenly shoved in his pockets. Sulking, Romero cursed his boss for interrupting him, and also the damn near assault he had afflicted upon the blonde man. Romero's palms were cut up from the sharp slivers of rock that had bit into his skin, not badly, but it still irritated him a lot.

__

I hate my life… Romero moped, kicking a rock around as he continued onwards, _I'm always stuck with the crappiest jobs, and the most psychotic bosses. Why can't **I** be the boss for once? Hey, that'd be cool. But nah, I'm just stuck babysitting a kid I can't even **touch** without bein' beaten up…_

They reached the aforementioned room, and entered, Romero's own thoughts being cut off as he looked around the chamber. Dario was gaping, and even a semi-distressed Kaitlyn looked moderately impressed. The chamber was _huge_, and not just big enough to house a sandcraft or two, far larger than that. Maybe, Romero reckoned that, if placed neatly beside each other, they could fit about seven hundred sandcrafts in this area, so gigantic that it was. They could not even _see_ the other end of the chamber, or any of the other walls except for the ones they had emerged from. The ceiling was so high up that it was nonexistent, and Dario reckoned that nobody less than a Guardian could have hollowed out such a great room. The dimensions were truly mind-boggling. Dario and Romero suddenly felt like tiny little ants in comparison.

"This is the place that the Boss mentioned," Dario announced, "So all we have to do is wait and make sure Kaitlyn don't disappear, and we'll be all set. I think this might be the easiest part, eh?" He deposited Kaitlyn in a corner, and sat down himself, stretching. Romero began to pace, disliking all the many shadows around them, and the chance that any one of them could hold a thousand terrors.

To combat this, he had to act tough. "So…" Romero drawled, stretching his arms out behind his head, as a languid support. "This looks like one of those haunted places we were goin' on about last night." He grinned. "You think there could be ghosts?" In arrogant confidence, Romero waltzed into a shadow and poked the upper half of his body out of his, so that it looked like he had no legs. "Scared, Bro? I betcha there are tons 'o ghosts around here, maybe we should call them? Hey kid," He directed his attention to Kaitlyn, who was now quite withdrawn and quiet, "You wanna see some ghosts?" His grin took on an evil quality. "The ones that come and steal little girls away in the middle of the night?"

"Bro," Dario warned, "That's enough."

Not taking a hint, Romero only continued his tirade. "Heh, maybe the Kelly Gang are in here somewhere? I'm gonna call them." Turning to the black shadows before them, Romero cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered as loud as he could, making Kaitlyn tense from the noise and recoil inwards, and prompting Dario to shake his head sadly. "HEY! NED! DAN! STEVE! JOE! KELLY GANG, YOU HERE?!" His voice echoed horribly in such a large area, like there were at least fifty versions of Romero's voice all calling the same words, at different rates and speeds. The effect was incredibly spooky. "Ol' Dario here wants to see your faces! Come and give us a look!" They received no answer, except for reverberating echoes.

But, though it was very faint, Dario thought he heard the sound of a small stone rolling somewhere in the darkness. Romero turned back to the others, pleased by his show of courage, puffing his chest out proudly. "It don't matter," The blonde ninja announced, scratching the scar over his eye lightly, "Not like ghosts and monsters scare me, anyway. In fact, give me one right now an' I'll show you just how brave I am!" 

Dario's face paled. As if on a perfect cue, a pair of glowing red eyes had just opened in the vast shadows, just over Romero's shoulder. They were filled with malice, hunger, and a contempt for all mankind. It looked like, as the shock hit Dario like a meteorite and he fainted dead away, that the legend and curse was true. Romero found out, far too late.

He was grabbed from behind, yanked back by his bandanna with a sudden sharp pressure enclosing around his right wrist. He was nearly pulled clear off his fist, and dragged back a couple of steps, away from the cringing Kaitlyn. The bandit suddenly smelt something rather musky close by, and felt a presence as cold as ice behind him, bearing absolutely no warmth whatsoever. From out of that, cold breath washed across his neck and he heard a low growl, the grip on his body intensely tightening. Romero, startled enough as he was, would have taken the chance to scream, but-

A powerful pair of jaws closed themselves over Romero's unprotected shoulder, biting down as dagger-like fangs pierced through the cloth and into his weak, soft flesh. They scraped through the thin layer of fatty tissue and met his moderately toned muscles, clamping down like a bear trap and holding firm. His clothes, absorbing a vast amount of his spilt blood, dampened and went dark, collecting most of his lost life force. Clive drank in the rest fitfully, feeling the warmth from Romero's body transfer to his own. There, it was abolished forever. The blood was rich and full of iron, nourishing and plentiful. His one eye wide, the pain finally hit Romero and he _did_ scream, out of sheer surprise, alarm and fear. He struggled against the lycanthrope for a chance to escape, but that just made Clive's teeth tear even further into the flesh, ripping tendon and muscle.

Clive eventually let go, after the wound had been drained of most of it's blood, and pulled up, ripping a huge chunk of flesh from the shoulder in the process. A sickening snap indicated that his collarbone had been broken in the process, crunched into splinters with the spongy marrow gushing out of the fractured cracks. Thin trails of blood were strung through the air as Clive pushed Romero away, claiming his prize of stolen flesh and bone. The bandit's expression was blank with overwhelming pain, now missing a fairly large portion of his left shoulder. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, suffering from a temporary paralysis of his limbs. Blood pooled around his open wound like a small lake, the arm more closely attached to the shoulder going deathly cold. Clive dropped to all fours and separated the cloth from the tender meat, biting down on the latter and beginning to feed. The sound was gory and terrible, almost aqueous and sloppy as the meat was devoured in great chunks, followed by the sharp crack of bone being chewed and swallowed, the marrow slurped up and away.

The fur around Clive's muzzle was flecked with splashes of blood, small strips of gore spotted here and there. Clive cleared them away with the back of one claw and prowled closer to the injured bandit, where the removal of the flesh and caused the wound to spill out more blood, visibly draining from his ripped-open veins. Romero's face was pale with pain and the lack of blood, twitching and quivering from the damage done to his nerves. Everything had hit him so fast, that he still had no idea of what was going on. All he knew was that he had been attacked.

"Dario…" He rasped in a weakened voice, still twitching spasmodically. "Where the… hell d'ya go, Bro?" His chest became heavy as a pressure was planted upon it, tentative, and then was slowly withdrawn. Romero, through his fit of agony, felt something freezing cold touch his open wound, and he fought with all his strength to hold back a scream. If his limb had not been as frosted over with numbing cold, so similar to the monster that had attacked him, Romero would have easily fainted dead away from the unbearable pain. Clive, leaning over Romero's abused body, licked the blood out of the injury that was steadily collecting in the lumps of remaining flesh, gruesomely drinking the rest of the blood. Romero wheezed, and tried to move away, but he could not even summon the strength to shift an inch.

When all the blood was gone, the lycanthrope began to tear small strips of meat off the wound, less tender than the flesh that had come before, but still edible and wholesome. Romero whimpered as his left hand flinched whenever another chunk of flesh was ripped off, knowing that he should be at least grateful that he felt no direct pain from the act. But he had to do _something_ soon, or he would die. "Dario…" He tried again, hoping that he would get a reply. "For fuck's sake… kill it… kill it now…" The only answer he got was his own breathing, the icy breath of the monster, and Kaitlyn's harsh, though distant sobbing.

His left hand flimsy and useless, Romero focussed on his more-or-less healthy right hand, which was lifelessly flopped by his side. Gradually, it inched over to Romero's belt, near the small compartments where he kept all of his deadly throwing stars. The bandit's fingers touched the metal surface of the container weakly, and slowly fumbled with the lid to open it, cursing under his breath. Here he was, being eaten alive, and he could even flip open a damn lid!

There was a slight 'click', and the lip snapped open, the sound as wonderful and as beautiful as he had ever heard it before. Reaching two fingers into the compartment, they closed around the sides of a sharply honed ninja star, the edge serrated and jagged, so that when it ensnared itself into a body, it would take a whole lot of suffering to pull it out again. Romero may not have been talented enough to wield any kind of ARM, but these small weapons would just do nicely, as long as he could muster up the strength to use one…

Clive yelped suddenly as a small explosion of pain burst with razor-sharp fury into his side, neatly entering the space between two of his ribs and getting caught there, the area blackening with demon blood. Romero took his chance and lashed out at the lycan with his foot, kicking the monster hard in the stomach and managing to knock him to the side. Now free, the bandit heaved himself up into a sitting position and howled out in agony as he finally saw his own wound, a huge gaping hole where his shoulder used to be. He didn't even _have_ a left shoulder anymore, his arm only still attached to his body by a few measly tendons. Romero went as white as a ghost and shuffled his body up against the wall, tears of pain stinging his eyes. This just _could not_ be happening. He could see the injury, it was a _fatal_ one…

__

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit… fucking SHIT! I'm… I'm gonna die… I'm gonna die…No! I don't wanna die!

The beast recovered at an alarming rate, trying for a few unsuccessful moments to remove the serrated piece of metal from his side. He eventually gave up and pounced on Romero again, enraged by the retaliation of the bandit. Romero was viciously pressed into the rock wall, shivering from fear. It was going to end, he knew it was going to end, and he understood the definite outcome. He _was_ going to die. Feeling himself becoming lightheaded from the effects of the bite, the injury and his fear, Romero wilted under the pressure, coughing up a tiny amount of blood. Giving up, he gave a weak, ironic smile. "Fuck you." He whispered.

Snarling, Clive leaned over, and tore Romero's throat out.

Blood spurted as his jugular veins were torn apart, more than half of his entire neck ripped out of it's place. Clive spat out this part and smashed Romero's head against the wall, the back of his skull fracturing under the impact. The lycanthrope no longer wanted a good meal, all he wanted now was revenge, and the chance to hurt and kill. Clive hit him against the wall, again and again, until the wall was stained a vibrant red, painted like a blooming crimson flower in it's shape, and Romero's head was nothing more than a bloody mess. Brains leaked out between the smashed parts of his skull, and Clive finally dropped him, his claws and muzzle bloody from the fight.

Now directing his attention to himself, he tried one more time to remove the sharp piece of metal, but his claws just weren't made to be manipulated in that manner, and all he managed to do was just dig it in further and cut himself a little bit. Realising that he would be unable to pull the obstruction out by himself, Clive chose to ignore the pain and drop again to all fours, looking around the room. He was no longer hungry, but something strange told him that his hunt was not yet over. Asides from food, he was supposed to be hunting something else. Scanning his short and damaged memory, he looked for answer, but the voice inside his head that told him what to do, what action to take, was silent. That part of him, the fragment of his human soul was lost.

Changing the focus of his mind, Clive suddenly heard sobbing, and it was coming from very close by. Turning, he noticed the little blonde human child huddled up against the wall, hugging her knees and crying, blocking out the horrors of the world around her. The girl's clothes and hair were disheveled, a small scrape on her knee visible from an old band-aid that was almost falling off. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, her eyes squeezed shut.

This sight had the same effect on Clive as if he had been struck suddenly with a blunt object, the lycanthrope sagging under a tiredness that hit him from out of nowhere. This was, that girl was _important_. He silenced the growl that had been building in his throat and went quiet, slowly moving over to her. She seemed not to notice his presence, so distressed that she was. A dark fire burning in his soul faded, and he discovered that he did not want to hurt anymore. Instead, he lightly touched the girl's shoulder, trying to discern what was wrong with her.

__

Find… cub… Find? _… Kait…lyn…?_

Something changed, and Clive, from an unknown place, was called back.

The gentle pawing he had been doing to Kaitlyn became more of a human's hand grip, and for the first few seconds, Clive's mind was a complete blank. It was like awakening from a very deep sleep, still groggy and disordered, unable to tell where he was. With the addition of an unfamiliar body to control, it only made matters worse. Soon, his eyes refocused and he noticed Kaitlyn, as who she really was. Surprised at her sudden presence, he grabbed her other shoulder lightly, just to make sure she was there. "Leave me alone…" She whispered, eyes still closed. "I wanna go home…"

__

Kaitlyn! Clive cried in his mind, _She is here! She is still alive! I have found her… but… Where am I? There is a… huge gap in my memory… Something about fire, and pain. I saw somebody… and I knew the truth. I cannot remember though, and… No, it does not matter…_

Looking down upon the girl, Clive became aware of the shape of his hands, which were more like animal claws, and nearly panicked, realising a painful fact. His mind had gone back to normal, but his body was still that of a fully changed lycanthrope. It probably meant that he could not talk either, and he should not try, either, in case he scared Kaitlyn more. Carefully relaxing his grip on the young girl, Clive raised one claw and wiped blood off his mouth, the taste still vibrant and pronounced in his senses. He had been hunting, he knew that. All he could do now was thank the Guardians that Kaitlyn had not been on his hidden agenda. He let go of Kaitlyn fully and nudged her side, trying to get the girl to stand up and walk. She, in response, curled up tighter and refused to budge. Clive decided to take a chance.

"…K-K-Krraaaiittrrinn…." He said.

The little girl went silent, her sobs ceasing. Going limp, she relaxed her body and unhooked her arms from around her knees, surprised. She had just heard her name, though horribly distorted, being called. It had a tone of familiarity to it, and some kind of warmth, though the presence that was radiating it was so cold. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked around for the person addressing her, her grey eyes wide with confusion. Her little heart nearly froze as she spotted Clive, the lycan on his knees, claws in his lap and looking at her inquisitively, his tail wagging slightly. Looking at his rows of gleaming teeth triggered a memory of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, and she screamed, frightened of the monster in front of her.

Her fear turned into shock and puzzlement as she was suddenly and unexpectedly drawn into a rough, though gentle, hug. She nearly tried to resist, but gave up before she even began to try, somehow knowing that the monster would not attack her. There was something familiar about the creature, a vague thought, and the familiarity of his dirty, dusty clothes. They looked a lot like her father's drifting gear, no wait, they _were_ her father's drifting gear. She could see a small stain on the inside of the red coat from where she had spilled a small amount blank ink over it about a year ago, and nothing herself and her mother had tried would get it out. This was, this had to be, her father. Kaitlyn was now certain, even his hugs were practically the same. "Daddy?" She asked, hardly daring to believe…

Unable to respond, Clive just tightened the hug slightly, and that was all the confirmation Kaitlyn needed. She didn't think it was possible, but her father _had_ come to rescue her, it was just amazing. "Daddy!" Kaitlyn repeated, hugging back. "I missed you! I didn't know I was going to be kid-napped and these people took me here! I was scared, but not as much as I was supposed to be! I went hiking and camping and I even left a clue for you to find, did you find it? Daddy, why do you look like that? What happened? Where's Mama? Can we go home?" The girl began to babble happily, trying to say so much at once, her previous fear suddenly forgotten. Clive wished that he could reply, but just remained silent.

However, his silence all of a sudden became an incoherent roar, born of pain, as twin slashes of burning agony were swept across his back. Clive fell forward and kept himself from hitting the ground with one claw, the other wrapped protectively around Kaitlyn. Landing like a graceful cat, Antonio's feet touched the ground with no sound, assuming a ninja-like crouch, the long blades attached to his leather gloves out and slicked with Clive's black blood. The fight was not over just yet. "I see!" The small ninja cried, slowly standing up. "This be the fight that Boss warn me about! You try and take chica? You fight Antonio first!" His eyes strayed to Kaitlyn, who was clinging to her father for dear life, unsure if she should be scared or not. Antonio was a nice man, but he had also just attacked Clive, what was she to think? To believe? "You no worry," Antonio said more softly to Kaitlyn, "I get you away from monster soon enough. You be safe."

Clive comprehended the challenge, and readily accepted it. No bandit was going to stop him from bringing Kaitlyn home. Nobody. Setting Kaitlyn against the wall, and making a simple hand motion that she was to stay put, Clive stood up as best as he could, still having to lean forward a bit because of his skeletal structure, and bared his teeth, snarling. Throughout all of this ordeal, a new way of fighting had been programmed into his body, and he would use it to his utmost degree, seeing that he was basically unarmed without it. He could not lose this fight. Losing the fight meant losing Kaitlyn, and that was simply _not_ an option. He would fight as he was, a monster.

Antonio was riled. Stepping backward a bit, his foot touched something fleshy and he turned his head slightly to see it, balking and paling at the scene of Romero's remains splattered all over the wall and floor. Who had done this to him? The monster? What kind of force was he up against? Maybe he should run. But, on the other hand, it had taken Kaitlyn hostage and he couldn't allow that, he had to save her; it was his duty. Antonio felt anger boil up inside his small chest, knowing which path was right. Romero was nowhere near as talented as he was in ninja skills, he would have to rely on that to win this fight. He had to make sure that Kaitlyn stayed safe. To keep his boss happy, and to keep himself happy. Truth be told, he sort of liked the little girl, she was pleasant to be around with. The least he could do was save her when she needed it most.

Kaitlyn didn't want _either_ of them to be hurt. She liked Antonio, and loved her father, why did they have to fight like this? Over her? What was so special about _her_? Couldn't they see that she didn't want either of them to die? Antonio shuffled one foot forward, tilting a little bit and lowering his height, raising both fists just so that the steel claws were ready to be used. Fury was imprinted on his hazel-green eyes, and when he finally lunged, they seemed to be on fire. "This is for 'Ro, you bastard!" He screamed, his curly black hair flying out behind him like a wild mane.

Hackles raised, Clive roared and charged out to meet the attack, the two sets of claws, both artificial and real, became locked with each other and they struggled, Antonio for Clive's greater strength, and Clive for Antonio's penchant for shifting his center of gravity every single second, the effect like trying to hold onto a slippery little fish. Kaitlyn, on the sidelines, could only watch, awaiting the inevitable outcome, that somebody was going to die.

The fight for Kaitlyn's life had begun.


	60. If Tails, Despair If Heads, Hope

It was a strange thing to duel somebody as small and as dexterous as Antonio. Many missed blows had been exchanged on either side, and Clive, used to fighting humans who were clumsy and unused to physical combat, it came as a bit of a shock to meet an opponent who managed to evade every singe claw swipe he dished out on the battlefield. The bandit was a flurry of slashes and kicks, each one missing and hitting clear air or a wall, but each attack getting nearer and nearer to a successful hit. These fighters, they were very closely matched, both relying on the same weapon, claws, and both having their own driven reason to fight.

Antonio was bashed into the wall, though he only remained there for the fraction of a second, sliding down it intentionally on his stomach until he was prone on the floor, and then used the full strength of his hands touching the wall to push off and slip away, small enough to escape through the lycanthrope's legs. Clive put his fist through the space of rock that had contained a bandit only a nanosecond earlier. Growling in frustration, Clive turned around and was sharply kicked in the chest, his growl becoming a wheezing bark from the strike. Antonio moved like lightning, a wild shriek piercing the air that sounded like some kind of high-pitched ninja war cry. It was now Clive's turn to be pushed into the wall, but he made use of the support well and slashed blindly at the air in front of him, hoping that his random attack would somehow made a hit. He felt his claws scrape something lightly in midair, but not made any real contact, and he wished that the body he was currently stuck with was more mobile than it was.

Doing an agile flip in mid-air, Antonio landed gracefully on his feet and staggered a little under the duress, breathing a little heavier than before. Slowly, he raised a gloved hand to wipe his cheek, lightly sliced open by Clive's claws, and stared at the blood imprinted like a long line down his palm. This wound would probably give him a scar, it _really_ stung. Looking back up at Clive, who lurched off the wall and hunched forward slightly, flexing his claws, the small bandit snorted, and spat out a curse. "¡Caramba!" He wiped the blood away. "I no let you get away, no from killing 'Ro, no for taking chica. I stop you now!" Antonio, despite being on the wrong side, knew that his heart was in the right place, he _wanted_ to save Kaitlyn, he _wanted_ to do the right thing. He knew that stopping this monster was the only way to save her, and he had to give it his best shot.

Clive moved before he did, and Antonio was forced to switch to the defensive, dropping and making a quick roll to the side. The lycan was relying more on punches and bodyblows than swipes and bites, being driven by a human mind gave Clive a noticeable disadvantage. He was reluctant to fight in the way that he had massacred Romero, that was not who he was, he was Clive Winslett, not a mindless monster any more. Because of this, he might even stand a chance at losing. Antonio was struck hard in the face by the back of Clive's claw, the force behind the blow enough to knock the bandit to the ground, blood starting to pour out of his nose. Again, as soon as he touched the ground, he was up again, and reacted in the way he moved, with ambidextrous agility. Antonio's artificial claws met their mark and Clive howled, stumbling back and clutching at his nose, cut badly from the attack.

__

I cannot believe it, the human is actually **winning** the fight… It must be, he has revenge on his mind, it is the only thing that would drive a person so… I understand, but, I **have** to win… _I **must**!_

He bellowed, not a howl, and not a simple roar. He put all of the power of his lungs into the sound, leaning back and opening his jaws out so the maximum amount of sound was produced. The result; the walls nearly vibrated with the noise, a long and fearsome death cry that would scare the coldest of killers into submission. Kaitlyn, horrified by the scene unfolding out in front of her, put her hands over her ears and cried, while Antonio stopped dead in his tracks, hazel eyes wide, as if the sound had shocked him out of the next attack he was preparing. Clive almost surprised himself by the ferocity of the sound.

__

There! This as about as stunned as I can get this bandit to be… Now I must modify my attack. I cannot win if I continue to fight as a human, I must accept it, that is not who I am. In a monster body, I must fight like a monster myself…

Trusting the inborn instinct implanted into his mind, Clive dropped down to all fours and pounced on Antonio, pinning the ninja to the ground. Antonio, who's eyes has almost glazed over by the roar, suddenly snapped back into life and yelled, clicking the back of his heel against the floor and triggering a mechanism in the sole of the boot, causing a small sharp blade to pop out of the boot at the tip, hidden until then. Using this, he kicked Clive hard in the stomach, and watched the lycan whimper and sag over him, intensely feeling the pain. Antonio then pushed Clive off and scrambled to his feet, holding his bloody nose and wondering what to do next.

Clive was propping himself up using his elbow and holding his stomach with his other arm, dark blood running down it and pattering on the dirty ground underneath him. He shivered, but shakily stood up again, hoping that his healing factor would eventually kick in and lend a helping hand. One leg almost buckled underneath him, unused to standing like a human and straining, while Clive yelped in surprise and fought to maintain his balance.

The ninja reached out to swipe at Clive's face again, having to crouch down and jump in order to reach him. Clive grabbed his arm, turned, and bashed Antonio in the exact same place he had previously struck the bandit against the wall, making a mark in the crumbling stone and forcing the small man to feel the spine in his back being pushed to the near breaking point. In a mad rage, Clive stretched Antonio's arm out and bit into the elbow joint, sinking his teeth down as far as possible and trying not to recoil from the thick taste of spurting blood, now disgusting and foul-tasting to his human palate. Antonio shrieked and tried to pull his arm away, flailing out with his free one and sliced Clive deeply across the chest. His shirt tore and more blood flowed freely, but Clive was numb enough by the previous blows to barely notice the difference. Pulling back and trying to attain his full height, Antonio's short stature and the ferocity of the jaw lock caused the bandit's arm to dislocate at the shoulder socket, the foreign man writhing under the rip and pull of his aching muscle and sinew.

Clive, hating what he was doing to the human, be it a bandit or not, finally dropped Antonio and decided to end his misery, as quickly and as painlessly as possible. He had defended himself, now it was time to end the fight. Antonio, lying on his back and clutching weakly at his arm, was defenceless. Clive slashed him across the stomach in a manner much like Travis had suffered, weaker, maybe, but it would still do the job. The bandit groaned softly, but was too weak to retaliate. Red blood mixed with black blood on the floor and Clive leaned against the wide wall, feeling sick. He was panting heavily as his healing factor finally activated, powerful and resealing more than half of his wounds and injuries. The blood stopped flowing and he felt a little better, his thoughts now turning back to Kaitlyn. She was still nearby.

Getting up, he lurched back over to her, his steps wobbly by his weakened state. She was still huddled close by, but her back was to the outside world and she had not allowed herself to witness the fight, wise enough to block the spectacle out of her vision. She turned back as he heard her father approach, at the moment when Clive lost all his strength and stumbled on a stone, falling harshly on his side and pressing Romero's throwing star deeper into his body. Whimpering sadly, he was still.

__

Too much damage… ugh… Beaten by a human… Always happens… Always fail…

A tiny pair of hands gently took a hold of his coat and rolled him onto his back, so the metal obstruction was no longer so painful in his side. Kaitlyn entered his field of vision, her tear-streaked face openly showing concern. "Daddy?" She asked, shaking him lightly. "Are you okay? Daddy?" Carefully, he sat up and touched his stomach, where long gashes in his shirt were splashed with blood, but the cuts that had been there only moments ago, had gone. The only thing left was the queasiness, and a stinging sensation on his nose. Remembering that Kaitlyn had spoken, Clive nodded and placed a claw on her head, gently, and making sure to wipe the blood off on his coat first.

Kaitlyn hugged him and Clive winced, but managed to hide the motion well and hug back, the rate of his breathing softening just a little bit. The little girl's hand brushed the metal of the throwing star embedded in the wound and she closed her hands around the flat of the metal, looking up at her father before attempting to pull it out, trying at the same time not to cut herself. The lycan grunted and clenched his teeth as he felt it, but it came out easier than Kaitlyn expected, though it also snared a small piece of flesh and left a rough open wound. Still, it lessened the pain Clive was feeling, and using the healing factor, it was gone within moments. Kaitlyn dropped the piece of metal like it was poisonous and clung to her father, crying softly again. She didn't really know why she was crying, she had her father back, she was about to be imminently rescued, why was she so sad?

Then she remembered Antonio. Looking over to where the bandit had been lying wounded, Antonio was no longer there, now leaning up against the wall with a long trail of blood dribbling down along the path he had walked, spilling from his arm and stomach. His olive complexion had paled straight after he had been bitten, even as he struggled to stay awake from the lack of blood that was tiring him out, the lycan virus had already infected his bloodstream, penetrating his very immune system. To Antonio, it felt as if his innards were writhing in pain. "W-why… you stay with monster, chica?" He asked Kaitlyn, his breath whistling and faint, trying not to throw up as every syllable was uttered. "I-I…I no understand…" He coughed. "Why you call him 'Daddy'?" 

"He _is_ my Daddy!" Kaitlyn protested, crying out the words. "I know it!" The girl watched Antonio limp along the edge of the room, using the wall for support. As he moved, the trail of blood lengthened, and a long smear from Antonio's arm painted a section of the wall red. The bandit was limping to an opening not too far away, seeming to try and make his escape. Clive stood, picking Kaitlyn up with him, and the small man glowered, slumping forward a little bit more. Clive wanted to finish the bandit off, but he would rather continue holding Kaitlyn than commit any more acts of violence, knowing this, he took a few steps away, keeping his gaze on Antonio.

If it were possible, the usually cheerful man's face became as black as the night. "¡Cabron!" He spat at Clive, the claws on his gloves retracting as he wrapped one arm around his stomach injury, the other one hanging limply. With a speed amazing for an injured man, he left the wall and made a break for the passageway, disappearing in less than a few seconds. Outside, his blood was still fresh on the floor. Now that they were safe, Clive set Kaitlyn down and knelt so that they were at the same height, checking to see if she was harmed in any way.

"Daddy, no really, I'm fine." She protested, somewhat heartened. "I scraped my knee yesterday, but nobody hurt me. They were really nice to me." She explained, smoothing down her old band-aid that was hanging off by one end. Then, both the lycan and the girl turned as they heard a scraping noise behind them, located in a small corner of the room. Dario was trembling, his back against the wall, pale and shaking like a leaf. He had been witness to everything, Romero's murder, Antonio's wounding, and was scared almost shitless. His knees knocked together, he shook, and he pressed himself further against the wall, having nowhere else to hide.

"St-st-st-st-stay away…" He quavered, taking out his Gillius ARM, though there was no way he would be able to shoot it straight. Clive took this as a challenge and growled moving forward one step. "I'm warning you! Stay b-back!" Dario nearly shrieked and the safety on his gun came off, though it didn't bother Clive too much. _Normal_ bullets were unable to harm him, anyway. Suddenly and quietly, the lycan and girl heard the soft sound of liquid spilling to the ground, and Dario went red, ashamed. He had wet himself. Nearly chuckling, Clive stepped forward again, eager to get rid of the bandits who had so deceitfully kidnapped his daughter. He wouldn't let _anyone_ get away unscathed, _nobody_. He swore that he would torture every single bandit that he could find.

Kaitlyn quickly grabbed at the sleeve of Clive's red coat, making the lycanthrope stop in his tracks instantly. "No!" She cried, "Don't hurt him Daddy! He's _not_ a bad man! He won't hurt us if we leave him alone! Please Daddy! Let him go!" More tears gathered in her eyes, and she pulled on his sleeve feebly, trying to impose her will on the powerful monster. Somehow, she succeeded. He paused, shifting his gaze between Dario and Kaitlyn. The little girl looked desperately at the bearded bandit. "Mister Dario! Please go!" She begged.

He didn't need to be told twice. Dario made himself scare _awfully_ quick. Now, when both father and daughter were alone, Kaitlyn climbed into Clive's arms again and sighed deeply, so glad that the horrible kidnapping was finally over. There were still some very important questions she was curious to know the answers to, why her father looked they way he did, for example, but that all could wait. All Kaitlyn wanted right now was to go home and see her mother, she had never missed her so much before. Going back the way he came, Clive retraced his steps, moving slower on two legs so he could support Kaitlyn, heading back to the entrance of the ruin. He had completed what he'd set out to do, Kaitlyn was safe and sound.

That was all that mattered. He forgot about his own complication, the hideous warping of his own body, that was not important. In truth, he could barely even notice the difference now between his old body and his new one. Clive had adapted to this, and it felt easier now, more _natural_ to move and react in this way. True, he had returned to a human frame of mind, with reason and conscience, but the placement of that ability was still subjective to a wolf demeanor and attitude. He was both at the same time. The spookiest thing was, he was absolutely fine with it to stay that way.

He just didn't mind.

xxx

"_This_ is the ruin?" Jet asked out loud, unimpressed.

"Yes." Catherine confirmed, herself and the remainder of the Maxwell Gang now standing outside of the wide open gateway into the earth. The night air was cool and refreshing, it washed away the slight feeling of unpleasantness from the teleportation spell, but it also made them a little reluctant to enter, knowing that it would be close and stuffy inside. They spent a minute outside just preparing themselves mentally to go in, knowing that they might not come out again. Catherine stared into the mouth of the cave and recalled the time nearly eleven years ago, when she had been a small stubborn girl of only nineteen years old, when she had entered this place for the first time, naïvely expecting that assignment to be just another careless venture into the unknown. Oh, how wrong she had been…

xxx

Every hundred meters or so, Catherine had to keep on turning around to check on Clive's slow process, his long trudge after her in the boiling heat, carrying a huge backpack full of archaeological tools, seeing that at the time, they could not really afford a horse, or even a donkey to carry it for them. Consistently, she heard a string of complaints coming from him that just didn't quit, involving the temperature of the day, how his feet were feeling, or how much of a slave driver she really was. Finally, she stopped, hands on her hips, and glared at the green-haired youth, mildly upset. "What did you say about my father?" She demanded, grey eyes stern.

Clive shrugged carelessly, somehow managing to do it under all the supplies he was carrying. "I said he was a coldhearted evil bastard for making us come out all the way here without even a mount to carry all our stuff. I'm not a donkey, why do _I_ have to do it?" Rolling one of his shoulders, he readjusted the strap of his Gungnir ARM and steadily met Catherine's eyes, not about to back down to her or her father. Groaning, he slid off the backpack and dropped it on the ground, a dull throb in his shoulders reminding him just how heavy the supplies had been.

"I know you're not a donkey, Clive." Catherine said levelly, her hand unconsciously going to the strap of her own Fafnir ARM in a mimicry of Clive's movement. "I know it's hard, and we've been walking all day, but you've been _complaining_ all day as well. Will you can it for a while, please? We're almost there." She had a witty idea, and she smiled. "Not a donkey, hmm? But you certainly are an ass." Catherine giggled, and Clive's eyebrow twitched.

"Bitch." He said.

"Bastard." She replied.

"Ugly." He pressed.

"Man-whore." She retaliated.

They both laughed at the small war of insults and pressed on, the mountains up ahead. In that place, was the ruin they were supposed to examine for Berlitz's study and research. Not only that, but it may contain the artifacts needed to generate money for their own livelihood, because they were in intense financial turmoil. Life in the wastelands was one ordeal after another, for the drifting partners not even out of their teenage years just yet. However, what Clive and Catherine never knew, was that the ruin, and what it contained, would be the bane of both their lives, for years to come. After the day they had first entered, it would be a place they would never wish to tread again.

xxx

But Fate was fickle, Fate was cruel, she was a mistress who toyed with people whenever she saw fit, to anyone and everyone she desired. She twisted lives, destroyed some, spared others. Rarely, she even rewarded mortals with a miracle or two. But, in essence, Fate would be a blindfolded woman dishing out hope and despair. Catherine, with all the experiences learnt in her long difficult life, knew one thing. Fate may have been blindfolded, but she peeked. All Catherine could hope for was that she was smiling in her own direction, for the sake of all her friends and family.

Without a second thought, she walked boldly into the entrance of the ruin, and didn't look back.


	61. Losing One's Way In Darkness

He burst through the barrier of shadow like somebody falling through a thin sheets of paper, landing roughly on his side. The pressure bent one of his wings backward in a way that would have made an ordinary person scream, but Ravendor just clenched his teeth and hauled himself up to his feet, brushing aside dirt. At least his teleport had been fairly accurate, if not a little bit prolonged. Magic like this usually worked much faster. His magical abilities had been winding down, that was the only explanation he had left. Ravendor rubbed away a smudge of dirt on his cheek and looked around, he was in a corridor not too far away from his ultimate destination. This was good, it was better than expected. He smiled, but then smelt blood, the smile fading. It was _not_ his own.

"S…eñor…" Antonio rasped, dragging his wounded body tiredly against the wall, using it for support. He had been smearing a long line of blood across the wall, and it must have been sheer luck that the bandit leader and the wounded companion had met in this way. Antonio's hazel eyes were bright with excruciating agony, and the way he had flung his dead arm against his stomach, he was using it to keep his innards inside. Ravendor turned to him, and narrowed his eyes, taking note of the scene. He didn't even flinch. 

The ninja's legs buckled and he sank down to meet the floor, leaving a sticky trail of blood behind. Ravendor straightened the wounded man out and removed Antonio's twitching hand from his shredded stomach wound. The skin had been torn and glimpses of innards had been shown, blood gushing out every time the bandit breathed. His brow was pouring sweat, though he felt cold on the inside, and the fingers on his bitten arm shivered feebly. He was just on the verge of blacking out. "Boss?" He cried weakly, "It… it hurt. How… bad it be?" Having trouble keeping his head up anymore, he drooped, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth.

The bandit leader checked the wounds over with the air of a doctor or scientist, coming to a conclusion rather quickly. "Antonio, you have a copious amount of internal bleeding and several of your organs have been ruptured. There is a good chance of structural collapse and extreme hemorrhage. I am sorry, but the injury seems fatal. You are going to die." Antonio seemed to tremble at his words, his breath deepening to ragged gasps. Carefully, he pulled his fighting gloves off and stared at his bare hands, cold, clammy, and shaky. He felt violently ill inside, but could not find the strength to throw up, his entire mind fixed on the concept, that he was going to die…

"N-no!" He exclaimed, shaking his head weakly and trying his best to disbelieve Ravendor's words. "I no can die! ¡Se equivoca! I have much to do first! I don't want… to go yet. Dios Mio… Please… gods, no…" He couldn't help but cry slightly, regretful of all the things he was going to miss out on. He was dying, he could feel it, but Antonio knew that he had not actually _lived_ yet. He had been looking forward to meeting a lady someday, maybe getting married, maybe even having kids, if he could ever find someone able to overlook his height and speech impediment. As the rest of his blood continued to drain from his body. Antonio threw away his hope for the future, moaning.

"Cálmese." Ravendor said as he stood and shook the blood from his hands, wiping them off on his dark shirt. From that motion, his hand brushed his pistol holster and he drew out his ARM, passing the weapon over to his left hand from his right, because he could not feel very well through the metal plating of his claws just yet, and he would not be able to properly handle the trigger. Though his left hand was not his steadier one, it trusted it far more. Digging in his pocket for a spare bullet, he found one and snapped it into place into his clip, his face grim. "Though you may have suffered internal damages," He informed his dying minion, "It has not made much of a direct impact and your death, though imminent, may be up to a few hours away. It must hurt." He paused to regard Antonio nod weakly at his statement, clutching his stomach so tightly that it must've only made it hurt more. "No se preocupe, Antonio," Ravendor continued, kneeling so that he was at the small bandit's height, "I will stop the hurting."

"¡Espérese! Lo más importente de todo…" He breathed, his mind unconsciously shifting back into his native language. "B-Boss… The chica, she… she say that her padre come back. I try and stop, but… I so badly lose. I sorry." A small puddle of blood was pooling around Antonio's body, and though the pain was not intense enough for him to scream or shriek, it was dull, throbbing, making him feel uncomfortable and weak. In truth, it didn't really feel like he was dying, his body was too numb and cold, but just _looking_ at his wounds made him believe what Ravendor had said. Taking a deep breath, he tried to speak again, forming words around the blood collecting in his throat. "¿No estás… enojado conmigo?" He wheezed.

"Of course not, you are only human, after all." He replied. "But no matter. _I_ will destroy him, you know I am perfectly capable. If you wish me to, I will avenge your death as well." He leaned over, pointing his ARM right in Antonio's face. The black metal gleamed almost evilly, like a reaper's scythe. If it were possible, the small man turned ever paler. "In a vague sense, you can call me a doctor," Ravendor said while flicking off the gun's safety catch, "So I do not consider this act simply murder. I will put you out of your misery, Antonio, it is not in my nature to let my minions suffer excessive pain, outside my own control. You may regard this as… mere euthanasia." The word was foreign, but Antonio knew that it was not a good thing for somebody in his condition to hear.

Antonio whimpered pitifully. "I no wanna d-" His sentence was cut off as Ravendor took the chance to shove the end of his pistol into Antonio's mouth, pressing up against his palate. This was a style of execution, and the ninja knew what was going to come next. He was scared, he freely admitted this, but he still could not help the small trail of tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them closed.

"Please forgive me," Said the bandit leader solemnly, like he was delivering morbid news, "But swallow this hot lead bullet and it will either send you to Heaven, or to Hell. You will feel no more pain. You will die instantly. This is all I can do, your destination is up to the purity of your soul. Send my regards to the gods, or to the demons for me." Slowly, sluggishly, he pressured the hairline trigger, and Antonio wilted, giving up a tiny pleading prayer. "Goodbye, my friend." Ravendor said, closing his eyes.

He fired.

The result was anticlimactic. A few bits of skull fragments embedded themselves in the wall and blood coated everything, a watery wet 'smack' sounding as Antonio's life was ended, the body once taut with fear, now limp, a corpse. It slid to one side, lying in the puddle of blood, getting it's curly black hair soaked in the fluid. Ravendor rose and snapped open his clip, the unused end of the fired bullet popping out of it's compartment, which tinkled on the ground. The dark-haired man bowed his head and took a moment of silence, Antonio was now at peace. "Adios… amigo…" He repeated, in the ninja's native tongue. He turned away from the body, walking down the corridor. He was almost there, at the final destination. 

__

…How fitting that a dark angel would send a man to his grave…

"Shut up." Ravendor said, holstering his weapon. "You do not exist, you are not real. You are just programming. Leave me alone." No meagre voices were going to stop him from completing his task. He gingerly held a hand to his hurting shoulder as he walked, feeling slightly healthier than a few minutes ago, but still unwell. The voices always came back when he was sick, or in his stage of transition. What he knew was that the thirty-five percent of his human side was slowly dwindling as the other two parts of him increased and grew stronger. It was horrible to experience, and Ravendor glanced with absolute loathing at his dark-plated claw, generated with a mixture of demon and raven cross-mutation. He clenched and unclenched it, stopping in his tracks. Turning, he cried out and viciously assaulted the wall with a powerful swipe, tearing great gashes across it's solid surface. Ravendor sagged against the rocky surface and swore softly, cursing the demons of his past.

__

They used you, didn't they? They used technology to get whatever they wanted from you, and you became their mindless slave. You did **anything** you were ordered to, **anything**, and though you do not remember it, you know what it was they forced you into…Malik especially. Remember what Malik did to you when you were under his mind control? I am sure **he** does, I am sure that he **enjoyed** it…

"Be silent!" He exclaimed darkly to his own inner voice. "Do not talk to me about Malik. All you can tell me is nothing but lies. _You_ do not know what happened either, as do I." He said quietly, confessing to nobody in particular. "The first time I died, it changed nothing, and at the same time, it changed everything. Afterwards, I still hated myself for it, for what I had done, even though I had no conscious memory or control. I was controlled… I was a golem… Malik controlled his golem…" Ravendor pushed himself up again and pounded the wall once, not too hard, to vent out his anger. Afterwards, he spat on the ground. It was a vulgar motion, yes, but nobody was around to reprimand him for it. He didn't really care. Walking off, he entered the next room, fiercely depressed.

He was familiar with this area, very much so, and he carefully made a note to step away from the decaying corpse of the slain centaur monster, gathering ants and other insects to come and feast upon the free meat. It was half-eaten, and no longer resembled it's former self, repulsively disgusting. It was not important, but the looming figure of the giant flame golem was, once more immersed in it's deep boundless sleep. It had taken Ravendor's advice, and rested fitfully. The bandit leader approached by walking around the chamber and up a rising ledge that was at the back, curving up into a very small cliff, so that when he stood at it's edge, he was at medium height of the golem's great mass. This was the place.

Now, he waited.

xxx

Jet took the lead, his tracking skills invaluable at a time like this. The small team of drifters followed him down a long thin corridor, sometimes half-blocked by a fallen stone, but still accessible. Virginia closely followed the silver-haired youth, her hands not too far away from her twin pistols, just in case they were jumped at by a creature of the dark. This place was nothing but darkness, made into individuals by the differentiating proportions of shadow. It almost felt like they were in another world, deep under their own Filgaia. Catherine was protected in the middle of the marching order, between Virginia and Gallows, the Baskar priest trailing about two paces behind and acting as the rear guard. If they were back attacked, at least they'd have a slight advantage. This was the way they had been moving, for nearly fifteen minutes now, and Virginia wondered how exactly Jet was tracking Clive when no trail was to be seen.

The android directed their attention to the side of one of the walls, where some strange markings lay. He could tell what Virginia was about to ask, and took the chance before she spoke. "Here, look." He halted, and the rest of the team did so on reflex. Jet touched one finger to a thin series of scratches on the wall, long and thin, so a little hard to see. "He's been through here, and he still seems to be smart enough to keep a track of where he's been before. Clive's been doin' this…" Jet turned around so he was facing the others, and walked back several paces, stretching his hand out to touched the wall again, but positioning his fingers just so that they were upon each long scratch. He walked forward, dragging his hand along the wall and the path that the gashes have made. Virginia understood. If he had been Clive, he would have left deeper marks in the wall from the claws, and using that, he was mapping out the areas he had trekked before. Even as a lycan, Clive must have been showing a slightly human intelligence, perhaps there was still a chance?

__

So Clive, Kaitlyn and Ravendor are all in this ruin… Catherine thought to herself, toying with the strap on Clive's Gungnir ARM. _I hope they are alright, I hope Kaitlyn is safe… Clive, did you find her? Why do I fear so much? And Ravendor, it would have been eleven years… I wonder what he looks like now? I wonder if I will recognize **any** of them?_

Catherine went deathly still. She heard a slight scrabbling noise coming from up ahead, and she tapped Gallows lightly on his shoulder, removing the sniper rifle from it's place on her back. Something felt wrong. "Gallows, I can hear something, can you?" He strained to listen while Catherine motioned for the other two to be quiet, but after thirty seconds of trying, he gave up and shook his head in the negative. Now congregating in a circle, Catherine hated to feel paranoid, but knew it was best for the others to know her assumptions, in case they turned out to be correct. "I am certain that I heard a noise, I believe that something is coming. What should we do?"

"We can't go back now," Virginia replied, "We've come too far. I believe that Jet knows what he's doing, and this _must_ be the right way. If we turn back and take a different route, by the time we find Clive and Kaitlyn, it might be too late for them. I think that we should keep going." She looked to the others, and Gallows seconded the motion, while Jet gave her a small smile. Catherine knew she was outvoted, and that they would continue down this path, so she quietly agreed as well. Hopefully, it was her mind just playing foolish tricks, and nothing more.

So, in a compromise that was discussed quietly in hushed murmurs between them all, they changed position of the order and walked three people abreast in the tunnel, Virginia and Jet on either sides, with Catherine in the middle, Gallows, as always, stayed a little ways behind. They held their weaponry at the ready, in case of attack, and continued forward again, following the markings that Jet pointed out. Soon, the tunnel widened out into a larger chamber, with three extending passageways on the left, right and center. The ones on the sides were tightly blocked off with piles of huge rocks, clogging up the openings, yet the center one was wide and clear, but it turned slightly from it's path a little way in, so it was difficult to see precisely what would come out of that corridor. The scratchings stopped here, and so to did they, as Jet tried to figure out what to do next. He had lost the trail.

Catherine was in a world of her own, thinking. _… Strange. When I heard that Ravendor had died, I didn't even cry, not once. Our relationship never really ended, though it was very rocky along the way. I suppose when he died, it was all over, but I didn't really notice that he was dead until I was informed that he died only a room away… I forgot about him, that must make me a horrible person, even if Yggdrasil was one of the reasons I lost my memory. He must hate me…_

One question still remained. Why on Filgaia was Ravendor still alive? He was supposed to be dead, written records proved that he was dead. And even so, how did he manage to disappear for nearly ten years, only to reappear now? Catherine was confused, it was a horrible feeling to be left all alone in the dark. Jet said something foul and kicked a small stone lying innocently nearby. He had no idea how to track Clive now. He had searched for footprints in the dirt, but found none, the lycan must have trodden only on the flat surfaces of hard rock, peeking up here and there through the sand and grit. Yes, Clive was showing cunning, he probably _knew_ that somebody would try and stop him.

"You are clever," Catherine whispered to herself while the others sought out a new direction, "But I will still find you, clever or no. You know that I, or better put, you know that the Aegis never gives up. Well, she is here now, and you very well that she has a job to do." She ran her hand down Gungnir's smooth barrel, similar to her old Fafnir ARM, but a little more expensive and with more firepower. It didn't matter, handling Gungnir felt better, anyway. The weapon was old, special, and fired hundreds of times by her husband, manipulated by his spirit. If what Halle had said about aura was true, then the Gungnir must have some of Clive's aura sealed somewhere inside, giving the weapon power.

And in that power, it gave her strength.

xxx

Clive berated himself when he stumbled on a rock and made a loud noise, moving up a corridor he had taken before. As mindless and as primally driven as he had been before, he had still remembered to mark the passages that he had taken, and using them in reverse, he could navigate his way out of here. He didn't know exactly how he was keeping himself upright on two legs, it was a royal pain when he always found himself just about to fall down, and throughout all of that, it hurt his spine badly. Kaitlyn, clinging to Clive and seeing this, tried to squirm out of his arms. "Put me down, Daddy." She said, "You don't have to carry me. I can walk." The lycan paused and looked down at her, tried to say something that didn't really work out, and gently set her down on the ground, going back to all fours soon after. It was just easier this way.

He heard a quiet whispering being carried by the nearly nonexistent breeze, whistling through the ruin. It bore the quality of human voices, and by the looks of it, he seemed to be the only one out of the two who had noticed it. Clive took Kaitlyn carefully by the elbow and led the girl a little ways behind a boulder twice her height, and sat her down, making that same motion he had devised, which clearly meant; 'Sit.' Kaitlyn, confused yet trusting, obeyed without question. However, as he went to go and check out the source of those noises, the little girl called out quietly and made him stop. "You're gonna come back, right?" Kaitlyn asked with a quaver.

"Yresshh…" He answered, slightly nodding his head. Kaitlyn just needed to wait there for a while, and he thought that nobody could get her if she just remained still and hidden. He didn't want to put her in danger, so he had to investigate those voices by himself. Clive wove through the twisting corridor, getting ever closer, and hiding behind every rock formation blocking a fraction of the path wherever possible, listening for movement. The voices got louder as he crept closer, and by straining his ears as much as possible, he could even make out a blurred word or two. In fact, some of the voices even sounded familiar. A few had a feminine quality, and the others were masculine, sending a signal that this group was of mixed backgrounds. Who were they? More bandits?

__

"… Something… heard it… not imagining…"

"You sure… not… just… wind?"

"…Ginny?"

"I don't know…"

Clive growled, if they were bandits, then they had come here to take Kaitlyn away, again. He had worked so hard to find her, he wouldn't just let them waltz back over and steal her. Kaitlyn was too important, she was precious, to him, to everyone. She had to be protected. If captured again, she would probably just be executed. And then she would die. **No**. He could not let that happen. He could not let the bandits get away with this. If they truly wanted Kaitlyn back, then they would have to get through _him_ first, and that meant they had better be damn well prepared for a fight. He would _kill_ them, so Kaitlyn could be saved. That was the way things worked, it was the way things had to be. It was hunt, or be hunted.

__

Hunt?

… hunt…

Against his will, Clive Winslett was pushed away and the beast took control again, gladdened, for no amount of massacre could soothe the burning fire in his blackened heart. Romero and Antonio were only the beginning, the sick little animals to be picked off before the healthier ones could be tracked. This was it, this was the epitome of the hunt. Clive felt his heart race just by _thinking_ about it. The lycanthrope heard laughter come from the hushed group of whispering, which was sharply cut off by a berating voice. This was the best time in which he would catch them off-guard, he had to act _now_. Clive stood up straight and walked forward, his tail flicking around behind him in agitation. He was going to _enjoy_ this, and for once, he had no restraints left to stop him. 

He was free. 


	62. In A Cold Sleep

(A/N: Because I watch far too much anime, I'm speculating that the insides of Diablo look very much like the insides of an Eva, from Neon Genesis Evangelion (Because Diablo reminds me of Eva Unit 2). If you've seen the series, picture something like that, please. )

For a long time, he sat there in what seemed to be purposeful meditation, cross-legged, and not bothered by the silence around him. A pale green glow emanating from the runes projected on his left hand changed intensity as the different individual runes changed shape, like they had some kind of meaning. Ravendor was reading them carefully, a continuing status report on the golem's life support system. He needed to wait for a change in the machine's slumber, or a flicker of it's AI activity. Then, he could sense it's complete energy level, and change it so that the machine might properly activate again. It was all a matter of patience. Unfortunately, Ravendor was hardly a patient man.

Luck came through for him and the runes at last matched up in a pattern that he seemed to be pleased with, the dark-haired man rising to his feet and smiling in a satisfied manner. He banished the runes and looked to the golem in front of him, sleeping without a care in the world. That was going to change. Ravendor raised his arms, like he was going to embrace an object in the sky that was currently intangible. His smile became extremely sinister, hiding an unseen intent.

"It is time! Spawn of demons, and the child of man! Diablo, Crimson Hellstorm! The last bearer of the Word of God has come! I am here, and I claim my right!" He said this in a way that would have made the deceased Prophets themselves proud, his aura growing visible in the process. It had a faint silver lining to stand out in the darkness, and using it, Ravendor rose several feet into the air, placing his hands in his pockets. "For ten years I have sought your power, at first, for no reason other than financial gain, but now…" He drifted over to the golem's head, chuckling in remembrance. "I have a _better_ use for you. There is no need to remain in this place forever, to rot away with no purpose. _I_ will give you a purpose. I will give you the power source that I have promised you."

He landed on the base of Diablo's spine, covered with a thick layer of scarlet red armor. The color was so vibrant, so much like spilt blood. Ravendor's aura faded, and his gravity went back to normal, the dark-haired man kneeling to search the armor for a seam, a slight crack in the defenses that made it nearly vulnerable. "That power source," He continued, talking to the golem like it was a person, "It is I. I am a construct in myself, that facet is what we both share. I will share my power, whatever I have left of it, with you." He found the seam he was looking for. "Oh, here it is." He added, locating the doorway to Diablo's insides. Hooking his fingers around the metal, he pulled for a long while and got absolutely nowhere, until he realized he was being stupid and switched to his claw, levering up the door much more easily this time. 

The removal of the entry hatch caused a burst of incredibly stale air to waft out through the opening and disperse in the greater area, having been trapped for almost a thousand years. Inside was an intense pitch blackness that almost had a kind of solidity in it's shade, all the energy and power of Diablo had been wisely shut down. This allowed the golem to survive to the present day, in a sort of cryogenic sleep that kept it's consciousness intact. Ravendor dropped down through the hatch and entered the darkness, his feet hitting a cool metal floor. Finding the rungs built into Diablo's inner shell, he climbed up a few of them so that he could reach up out of the entrance and close up the hatch, sealing himself inside. Now it was so dark that even _he_ needed a light, and so he fumbled almost blindly around for the master control panel built in somewhere nearby. His fingers brushed a button amongst many and the emergency energy supply slowly flowed into life, the darkness brightening into a dim light.

Diablo's insides held a distinct similarity to the inside of Lombardia's shell, the two pieces of elaborate machinery probably built or designed in their own image. Ravendor didn't know enough about history to know for certain, but this golem was vastly ancient, almost indescribably so. And yet, the technology used to power it was centuries ahead of any modern work, it was truly mind-boggling to think about. The dark-haired man hid his eyes from the emergence of the light, needing time to let his vision shift from night to twilight. A few seconds flowed by and he removed his arm from his face, inspecting the core of Diablo's being.

It was plated with a pale whitish metal that had attained a pale creamy color from years of disuse, and in the center of the room, there was a control chair complete with some kind of restraint for the pilot, and around that, the master controls. They vaguely reminded him of the terminals he had used in Yggdrasil years ago, though the writing on the buttons were in a language he couldn't understand. The chamber smelt like a museum, old and decrepit. Ravendor turned around and inspected the inner plates of metal, like the armor on the outside, but much thinner and weaker. The air was close and encouraged silence, so when he saw an amount of scratched writing on the shell, he didn't dare speak a word. Carefully, he set his dark claw against the metal and pressed down with a small amount of force, trying to make a similar mark. The wall did not yield to his influence, and he gave up rather quickly, not wanting to harm the golem from the inside. He was just curious, that was all. Now, about the writing, that _was_ interesting.

__

They **won't** get in the way of my ambition! It's death to the humans, or BUST!

-- _Zed_

"Ah, so it was somebody named Zed who once commanded this monstrosity, against a team of humans, no less. How interesting." Ravendor said softly, running a finger down the angular branches of writing. It looked like the words had been carved in by a sword stroke, or some other sharp object. He wondered idly if this 'Zed' person had managed to win? In any case, it no longer mattered, and he walked to the pilot's seat, inspecting it with intrigue. Ravendor had a basic idea on how the logistics of a golem worked, those years spent working for the Council of Seven had not been wasted, but the specifics still needed to be figured out. He would do that now, for starters, by getting into the pilot's seat.

The moment Ravendor sat down and placed both hands onto the control orbs at the end of each armrest, some kind of liquid metal flowed out of an unknown cavity, solidifying around his arms, legs and midsection, formidable restraints. The drifter was startled for a moment, but realized their purpose and allowed himself to be captured and bound, becoming linked to Diablo's neural net through the workings. His spirit, in the same way an ARM was handled, manipulated the giant creature like a personalized weapon, with intent and purpose. Sighing, he lost feeling in his original body and became aware of the golem's own nervous system, his consciousness halfway transferred to the larger, more powerful body. Stuck in-between, he had influence over both shells. Gently leaning his head back against the headrest of the chair, the runes appeared along his arms again and he used the magic to transfer his own power into the golem's backup supply, draining one body and strengthening the other. There. Now, he should be able to move.

__

…This reminds me of before… During the time… when I woke up… No, I must not think about that…

Clenching his left hand gently, slowly, so each muscle movement could be individually checked and accounted for, Ravendor felt that outside, the golem's body powered itself into life and imitated his motion with perfect precision, the alloys squeaking a little from a tiny bit of rust. That sound soon died down as the machine got better used to the motion, and a low hum of a warming engine vibrated through the caverns. Diablo groaned, coming back from his deep slumber, and Ravendor pushed the unwanted consciousness back into the corner of Diablo's databanks, overwriting the AI so that only _he_ could command. He gritted his teeth as the luminosity of his runes increased, and he hacked directly into the mainframe via the uplink, changing the nerve endings to coincide with his own. A screen appeared in the wall, melting out of the metal shell of the golem's armor, and it flashed to life, showing an image of the cavern outside. Binary ran across the screen, ever changing, until the numbers seemed to make some sort of match, changing their color to red and vanishing. The true soul of Diablo had gone silent, and Ravendor had taken over.

The monster stood up with moderate effort, head sweeping the high roof and sparks flying from it's rusted joints. Diablo leaned back slightly and bellowed, it's already crimson red armor heating up from it's token element, pure punishing fire. Smoke seemed to come off it's body, and the temperature rapidly increased. Like a small earthquake in itself, it stepped forward, rocks from the ceiling falling down from the vibration. Ravendor, only half aware of his weaker body, smiled with satisfaction and freed one arm from the restraints, the limb passing through the inconsistent metal like warm candle wax and reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, removing something that looked like a small conch seashell, or a weird-looking potato. It was a woodwind ocarina, very old, and completely foreign. He truly had no idea how to use it, but…

"Ancestor Cecilia Adlehyde once used this instrument to move a golem's location. I inherited her abilities of control, however I am not sure if this will work for myself too. The royal bloodline had weakened throughout the centuries, I probably am not powerful enough, but I shall try anyway." He put the mouthpiece of the ocarina to his lips, covered a few holes in the body randomly with a few fingers, and breathed through the shaft, hoping to receive a sound for his efforts. A low tone echoed in the control chamber, not beautiful or enchanting, but not horrible on the ears. It was a start, at least. Persevering, he opened more holes and played a second note, higher in pitch and length, then, he lowered the note once more and tried for a slower sound, trying to hit the correct tune to make the golem move.

He practiced for nearly ten minutes on the odd musical instrument, attempting to get the sound right. A few times, he made an error and the noise was no better than nails on a chalkboard, but at the same time, he managed to make some notes that sounded strangely beautiful, filled with melancholy. He memorized exactly what he had done with those tries and rearranged them into a semi-coherent order, the beginnings of a tune starting to emerge. He got slightly better and toyed with the string of music, if he were not in a more important situation, it would have been interesting to see what kind of music he could compose. But for now, this was all he needed.

Ravendor waited for the quiet echoes of the ocarina to die down before he would use it again, needing absolute silence. Now, he reactivated Diablo's uplink and boosted the output of it's auditory unit to full, loosening his grasp on the captured AI so that it could hear and respond. He played the tune slowly and meticulously, trying his best not to make a mistake. All in all, he did not too bad for an absolute amateur, and when he finally went quiet, he somehow got the message that it had done the job. The giant groaned once more and he put the instrument away again, setting himself properly back into place. It was now time, this shell would protect him until his metamorphosis was complete, like a cocoon protects a pupa, and soon, he would be ready to destroy all, to destroy _him_, to destroy Clive Winslett.

The ground underneath slowly swallowed Diablo with an endless hunger, a response to the magic of the ocarina, and the golem and it's master disappeared into the earth, leaving the cradle of the fire giant. Ravendor's awareness slipped away as the magic continued to work, relying on the uplink to keep him in stasis just like a golem's sleep. Discarding his weak fleshy body for the moment, he obtained a shell of metal, fire, and ancient strength. The power he felt was enormous, the energy he had supplied doubling by almost a hundred fold. He was slightly rusted, but he could get over that. Yes, this was power. _Unimaginable_ power.

He and the Crimson Hellstorm were one.

xxx

They aimed their ARMs into the dark passageway in front of them, two pistols, a machine gun, a shotgun, and a rifle. After a bit of strained hearing, the group had come to a conclusion based on Catherine's notion, that something was coming. Now, they could _all_ hear footsteps in the dark, uneven, even a little stumbling, but that did not make them any more confident. Gallows laughed nervously. "You don't reckon it's gonna be Kaitlyn, eh?" He asked, looking to the others. Virginia shook her head, and shot him a negative gaze, the footsteps sounded too loud to be coming from a small child. Jet said something that described Gallows's mental capacity and also made the two girls blush, a little too vulgar to be repeated. The Baskar winced, and then was silent.

Catherine became the negotiator. "Whoever is there, come out now with your hands up! You have several ARMs here waiting for you, so I advise that you obey my commands! If this is a bandit, then prepare to be captured!" Her weapon cocked and ready to fire, she could have sworn that she had heard a quiet growl when the word 'Bandit' had been mentioned, and she took a step back, unnerved. Was this going to be a bandit, or some kind of monster? She was about to find out.

A figure emerged from the shadows, hunched over a little and splashed with bandit blood, just beginning to dry. It's claws clenched and unclenched from tense energy, it's breath cold and frosty, a presence that seemed to radiate evil intent. It's tail waved back and forth in a manner that almost made the creature look amused by the new people in front of it, cocking it's head to one side slightly. It looked curious, as if it had not found exactly what it was expecting. A dirty red jacket hung off the creature's misshapen frame, ripped and torn in certain spots, but giving an indicator of who this creature precisely was. Slowly, Catherine shouldered her weapon, in utter disbelief.

__

"The next time you see me, be prepared to acknowledge the inevitable without reservation. I know you are strong enough to do so…"

Was this what he had been talking about? Was this what he was so afraid of, of what he would become? Catherine felt weak on the inside, her heart seemed to be failing to a weak little flutter. This was, without a shadow of a doubt, her husband. The description matched perfectly, a wolfin man stained in blood. Yes, this was it. The murderer, the monster, the demon. He looked even worse than what Catherine ever could have imagined, and it froze her, deep inside.

"What the heck is _that_?" Gallows exclaimed.

"Shut up!" Jet scolded, "You'll provoke it- _him_!" Clive took a small step back, like he was trying to widen the playing field, appraising them silently. The entire Maxwell Gang endured the torture of staying perfectly still, the slightest move could trigger an unwanted response. This is what the moon had done to Clive, made him into no more than a beast. _Could_ medicine cure this? Could anything bring a person back from something so horrible?

Then, the worst thing that could ever possibly happen in the history of bad coincidences occurred. Somewhere, a Guardian was probably laughing at this event.

Gallows sneezed.

It was not a regular kind of sneeze either. If the Baskar had not suddenly held his hands out of his face, he probably would have blown all of his brains out through his nose, so powerful the force was. It nearly echoed off the walls, and Virginia's heart thought it would explode in her chest from the sound, looking to Clive to see his reaction. It was a bad one. He attacked, and headed straight for the catalyst, claws and teeth gleaming and deadly.

Gallows and Clive locked themselves into a battle of brute strength, hands and claws braced and straining against shoulder, the human and the lycan struggling for victory. Sweat stood out on Gallows's skin as he fought to stay in the competition, the muscles in his arms aching and crying out for more oxygen from the pressure. The Baskar priest dug his heels as deeply as possible into a loose patch of dirt underneath him, which helped him some, but only prolonged his inevitable defeat. Gallows was tiring, and Clive was not. The lycan's steady glare was augmented by it's deep crimson glow, it seemed to drain Gallows's strength straight from his body, slowly weakening his resistance. He lost ground and was gradually pushed into the wall, feeling the hard and abrasive surface pressing into his back. Clive snarled and snapped at his neck, missing by only a few short centimeters. Gallows called on hidden energy stores and managed to push his way away from the wall, grunting as he did so. This was not over yet.

Making his move, Jet tightened his grip on the airget-lamh and jumped onto Clive, moving the body of the weapon so that it was under Clive's throat and pressing down against his windpipe, both hands holding the weapon firmly on either side. The result was like a loose garrote as Jet put his weight into the attempt, forcing Clive to let go. The lycan yelped from the sudden pressure around his neck and bit his claws deeply into Gallows's unprotected flesh, causing cuts, but no major wounds. Ripping them out again, the claws flew to grapple clumsily with the machine gun near his neck, and Clive finally got a plan into his head and he slammed himself backwards into a wall. With Jet hanging off his back, the silver-haired boy was like a cushion between the rock and the lycan's body, all the wind being knocked out of his lungs. Jet groaned and lost the handhold on his weapon, sliding off and onto the floor. He breathed raggedly to get more air back into his system, his vision greyed around the edges.

The Baskar, ignoring his bleeding shoulders and holding onto his Coyote ARM by the end of it's handle, ran over to Clive again and smacked the length of the weapon's barrel across his face, bracing himself and then tackling the full force of his body into the monster's body, trying to bring him down. Clive reeled from the hit and uttered a shocked bark when he suddenly met the ground with a loud slam. He recovered his wits after a second of disorientation and slashed at Gallows's body, parried by a blocking move by the priest's own ARM. A hideous scraping sound pierced the air, metal against claw, but no damage was actually done. Glad of his great muscular weight, Gallows tried his best to pin down the snarling lycan, both hands on Clive's forearms to hold down the claws.

Virginia rushed to Jet's side and hauled the boy up into a sitting position, his face pale from the sudden shock in his nervous system. He would receive bruises, but all that was left was just a small amount of shock. He could recover from that with no sweat, he just needed a little bit of time. "Jet!" Virginia cried, shaking him, "C'mon, get up! You have to stand and fight!" The android's lavender-coloured eyes slowly opened and they immediately shifted back into his role and duty, to fight off the monster that was threatening his friend's life. Rubbing his stomach gently, Jet rose and left Virginia's arms, shaking the lingering feeling of confusion from his mind. He picked up the airget-lamh, and now he was back. 

Targeting the spot where the action was now transpiring, he ran back to it with a warrior's calm. "Hey Gallows!" He yelled as Clive managed to lean up and snap once more at Gallows's face, growling and snarling with frustration. "Whatever you do, don't let him bite you! We don't need two of these damn things running around on us!"

"That's fucking easy for you to say!" He retorted loudly, barely missing the attack that time. He couldn't just hold Clive down like this forever, where the hell was Catherine and that medicine? They needed it now! He risked a glance around him, spotting the woman a little way away and looking mesmerized by the scene unfolding around her. She still had not recovered from the initial shock received from seeing Clive for the first time, and now, she looked positively unreachable. "Catherine! Snap outta it- agh!" Clive took advantage of Gallows's change of thought and called forth a devastate arcana attack, the first time he had managed to cast magic in his lycan form. Blinded by the light, Gallows's hands unconsciously move to cover his eyes, removing the restraints and crying out from the pain. However, this pain was localized only in the nerves in his eyes, and for some reason Clive had refrained from hurting Gallows in a magical way, just seeking a diversion.

He kicked the Baskar away and hopped up to his feet with lightning speed, slamming Gallows up against the wall once more. Like Romero, Clive was intent on tearing the priest's throat out. Hoping to knock out the lycan magically, Gallows chanted a sleep arcana but watched with dismay as it dissolved into nothingness with seemingly no effect, cursing his misfortune. Now, he took a physical defensive and punched Clive directly in the stomach, powerful enough to knock a fully-grown man clear into unconsciousness, but he shouted in pain as the impact shot sharp pain up his arm, feeling like he had just struck a solid metal wall. Clive made a noise indicating that it had indeed hurt, but nowhere near enough as it should.

And then Virginia was immediately between them, her blue eyes narrowed and focussed, holding up her twin pistol ARMs. It was like she was in-between some kind of weird hug by the looks of it, while Clive was trying to pin Gallows against the wall, and the girl knew that she was totally vulnerable to one of Clive's bites at that very second. If he managed to take the initiative without her move being made, then Virginia was as good as dead. She took a terribly risky chance, but she knew that she had to just save her friends. "Oh Clive, I'm sorry." She said softly, reaching up with her Rapier EZ ARM, plated with a coating of pure silver and pressing it against Clive's muzzle, using it for it's composition, not it's function.

The silver burnt with a purifying fury into Clive's fur and skin underneath, making the monster howl in tortured agony and pull away, falling to the floor and curling up in pain, whimpering. Gasping, Gallows was freed and he rubbed the newly-formed cuts on his wrists from where Clive had held him down. Looking towards Virginia, the Baskar whistled in disbelief. "Whoa, I _never_ would've thought of something like that! Ginny, you're a genius!" He winced, feeling his minor wounds and then sealing them with a heal arcana, the pain evaporating with a slight tingling feeling.

The drifter leader leant over Clive's body, the lycanthrope having gone silent and still, lightly clutching his injured nose. He was on his side and breathed softly, like a dog in the midst of sleep. Had that attack knocked him out? Virginia wasn't positive or not if silver could have such an effect on him, but it looked like it had. They must be in luck, she thought. In the meanwhile, Jet walked over to Catherine and grabbed the woman by the shoulders, shaking her roughly. "What the hell is the matter with you?!" He yelled, "When a monster comes straight at you, you _fight_, you don't just stand there like some kind of _goddamn_ statue!" He glared at her with apathetic eyes, not noticing how vacant Catherine's own looked. "You're supposed to be some kind of veteran drifter? If you freeze on the battlefield again, you'll die!"

Catherine's voice was almost heartbreaking. "He's not there… I can't… I cannot feel him anywhere, his soul is gone… and now there is nothing else…" Her body went sort of limp, and the only reason she could stand now was because Jet was holding her up. "He is gone… I've lost everything…"

Virginia pushed Jet aside effortlessly, took a hold of Catherine, and sharply slapped her. "Give up now and he _is_ dead! It's a shock to us all to see him like this, but keep it together! We _can_ cure him! The antidote, Catherine, you can use it now." The older woman's eyes seemed to refocus on that statement of the facts, and she stood up properly, nodding. Carefully, she took out the antidote's case and smiled at Virginia, ignoring the sting of the girl's slap. She really had deserved it.

But when they turned back to Clive, everything had changed.

Gallows was lying unconscious on the floor, his body limp from a severe life drain arcana, near the borderline of physical termination. Twisted slightly, it looked like he had put up a silent fight until the very end. Clive, back to health from the Baskar's stolen energy, had Jet in a familiar arm-hold with one bloodied claw over the android's mouth to muffle out his cries for help, the scene and situation so similar to the incident at Westwood Station that it was not funny. "You… you were playing possum!" Virginia exclaimed, amazed at Clive's attempt to dredge up a plan. Was he thinking strategically, even as he was?

The lycan grinned, though he could speak no words, twisting Jet's arm back so that it was in the near breaking point, the boy closing his eyes tightly and shaking, showing exactly how much it hurt. There was a sickening crack, the sound of a bone popping out of it's socket, and Jet found some way to scream through the gag, going as pale as milk. His arm went limp and Clive let go, the limb flopping helplessly out of it's socket. Overwhelmed, Jet fainted, cursing his weakness.

"Jet!" Virginia cried, abandoning all reason and nearly throwing herself at Clive, raising her pistols to fire. Clive caught her hand and disarmed her swiftly by grabbing her wrists and hauling her sharply to the left, the weapons falling out of her hands without any trouble. Letting out a cry, she tried to struggle free but Clive bashed her against the wall, more gently than the other two men, but enough to knock her clean out of the action. Virginia landed on top of Jet, a few tears escaping her closed eyes. The Maxwell Gang had been defeated.

Clive growled and licked the blood off the tops of his claws, sizing up his last opponent, who stood there with her lips parted a little in stupefaction, her rifle ARM still hanging by the strap around her shoulder. She was in a state of disbelief. "Clive…" Catherine whispered, distantly. "Please… come back…"

He did not hear her, and then, he charged.


	63. Live With Me Forever

(A/N: I wrote this while listening to DJ Carbunkle's legendary FFVII remix, Dying Planet. I love this track, it just kicks so much ass. So as such, it is the perfect piece of music to listen to while reading this. And also, I have one last thing to say. Thanks for all the reviews! I love you guys! )

The ex-drifter stunned even herself by the way she managed to parry and intercept the first blow, the shock from seeing Clive in his lycan form disappearing in a burst of adrenaline. She sidestepped just at the right second as Clive rushed by her, claws out and deadly sharp. Hardly thinking by herself, she caught one of his arms in a grip that was considered strong by people like her, and held back his move, yanking him backwards. Shrugging the Gungnir ARM off her shoulder, she let go and held it in two hands, like some kind of a club. The lycan turned as soon as he was touched, stepping back a few paces to size Catherine up better.

She beat him squarely in the chest with the iron-capped butt of the heavy rifle, the blow enough to knock a regular person out, but still too weak to cause Clive any serious harm. The air was knocked out of his lungs and he was forced back, feeling the soft ache from where the metal had struck. He swiped at her but met only air, Catherine ducking just in time. When she moved back, every step was punctuated by closely dodging another attack, her eyes focussed on Clive's own. He fought like he was defending something, ruthlessly protecting whatever it was that he held dear. And yet, his eyes possessed a strange empty quality, his body acting on orders that his mind had given out, before departing. The animal mind that had integrated into his own was like an automaton, blindly obeying.

Catherine knew, she had to find a way to bring that old part of him back. It _must_ be possible, Halle had said that it could be so, and that she, _only_ she, could bring him back out of it again. She had to try. It was the sole reason for her being here. But then, what could she do? _Start slowly, _She thought, _Try and calm him down first. Then, I will see what I can do. He **must** still be in there, somewhere. He **has** to be._

The only way she could think to calm him down would be to weaken him first, allow the lycan to wear out most of his anger and rage, then he might become docile. Catherine knew how to properly defend herself from attacks of a melee persuasion, she had not been called the Defending Shield for nothing. She began to quit dodging each separate blow and started to use the metal body of the Gungnir to parry the attacks, bringing the metal up to slam against Clive's arm and pushing him away. He would probably receive bruises from it later on, but the lycan just snarled and continued, ignoring the pain. He could run from the pain, a useless gun that was made of just metal and human ingenuity.

But he could not run from the piece of his spirit within.

Every strike, along with the blunt sensation of pain and the physical force expelled by the attack, caused some kind of contact between his hollowed-out aura and the spirit of the weapon, interacting, like the blueprint of an organism meeting the real thing. Clive had been corrupted and changed by an outside force, but slowly, little by little, the imprint of his spirit touched his own, and rattled out one of the restraints on his soul, eroding the lycan's curse. Catherine was beginning to sense a change in the ferocity of Clive's attacks, they were weakening in power and execution. His rage was winding down. The monster was beginning to pant from exertion and fatigue, hunching over and growling. Something inside him was… _changing_.

__

Fight, fight, fight! …Hunt… kill… kill all! They hurt cub, they die! They hurt cub, **they die!** …Die!… die!… die…

Wh……What?…ugh… no! No rest, hunt! I can't… I cannot let…them… take her…I cannot let them take her! No, not Kaitlyn!

His final attack didn't end with him pulling up and swiping at her again, as he had currently been doing, but the slash ended up as a grip against Catherine's weapon, holding onto it just as Catherine was. This surprised her greatly, and she tried to pull away, except that Clive refused to let go. The lycanthrope became still, thinking hard, and looking at the person who he had attacked, as if he could not recognize her. Both human and monster went limp, staring at each other and refusing to make a move. It was a tense moment, and Catherine felt like her nerves were going to give out at any time now.

__

…Know her. See her… before… Person… person…long ago… See her… nice… nice lady… something… Know smell. Smell same…

She pulled down, to drop the weapon, putting pressure on the gun for Clive to do the same. Mesmerized, he also let go and allowed the ARM fall unheeded to the floor, keeping his gaze fixed on the woman of his past. He was just a step away from recognizing her face, her voice, her smell. The desire for destruction faded as the old memories slowly worked their way back into his head, and Clive whined, still not understanding yet. Catherine, acting on sheer impulse, leaned over and hugged the abomination, _hugged_ the creature that had so eagerly tried to kill her, only seconds ago. He merely whined in question, unable to understand. Who was this person?

… _Mate?_

It all came back, completely, all at once. The red glow in his eyes faded suddenly, replaced by their normal natural blue colouring, making the monster whimper sadly, trying to absorb all the lost information back into his mind, the rush overwhelming, like a great tsunami. For nearly twenty seconds he just stood there, tense as a hairline trigger, his breathing erratic and short. This was almost as bad as the time he had recalled the lost information in Claiborne, except that he had been able to express his pain with words, and communicate it to the others. Clive could do no such thing now, he couldn't even _speak_. Catherine was clinging to him like a lifeline, and tears welled up in his eyes, regretful, lost. There was only one way to express his pain physically at the time, so he did it.

Clive howled, and no words could ever exist great enough to describe the agony felt within it.

xxx

What followed after that was an intense period of darkness, brought about for some unknown reason, though Clive could have guessed that the emotional strain it had taken on his mind had overloaded him, forcing him into a blackout. He could sense that the night had darkened, but his mind was now returned to his body, and mentally, he was more or less himself again. The lycan wanted to just curl up and disappear, so he could cause others no more grief. He remembered it all now, the suffering of the last few days, on himself, and on his family and friends. Clive hesitantly opened his eyes and exhaled a breath deeply, lying on his side against the wall. For some reason, he felt warmer than usual, and no stones or jagged parts of the rock face bit into his back. Paying special attention to his body, Clive sensed that somebody had their arms about his middle, despite it being covered in dry disgusting blood. Somebody was holding him, closely.

Catherine was by his side, leaning into his shoulder. She was far more awake than he was, her eyes open, yet half-closed. Gungnir was propped up nearby, a few feet away, and dented by his repeated attacks against it's surface. It would _really_ need some new repairs soon. Clive wasn't paying any attention to it, though, still confused to what was going on. One of his ears twitched when he realized that Catherine, thinking him still asleep, was humming soft words to him, in a half song, half chant, huddled against his body. It was a song that she always sung to Kaitlyn when the little girl was feeling scared from nightmares, or other horrible dreams. Why was she singing it to him, _now_?

_

"The Indian child,  
On the far western plains,  
Hears the winds and  
Sleeps when it rains  
Safe in his mother's arms.

Little child all tucked in bed,  
Looking like a sleepy head,  
Stars are quiet in the skies,  
Little child now close your eyes."

_

It was a verse like this that made Clive sometimes wonder if Catherine had any known Baskar blood in her family lineage, though when he had asked her about it on many occasions, she did nothing but deny it. Nevertheless, he also knew that Catherine's mother had died close after her birth, and that the song was the only thing she had left of her. Clive had always been glad to know that her mother could still live on, in another form. This was also the same reason that he named Kaitlyn after his deceased adopted sister, to spur a memory onwards. The words, they made him feel sleepy, and at the same time, totally calm. Catherine had followed him, she had taken her own path, and it had led her straight back to his side.

He rolled over, whimpering and wrapping his arms in turn around Catherine's waist, trying his best not to cut her with his sharp claws. She looked at him, and smiled. "Is that you in there, Honey?" She asked, calmly and quietly. "If you can understand me, nod your head, please. Can you do this for me?" He paused, sniffing, and nodded under her command, warmed up by her body heat. He had none, and it was wonderful to experience the loving touch of another once more. He was a little too overwhelmed at the moment to even ponder _how_ Catherine had gotten there in the first place. Actually, it didn't matter. She was here, and that was all he needed.

Catherine carefully rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, limp from Clive trying to keep himself under control. She leaned back to look at her husband, his head down and shivering, torn into pieces by the knowledge of what he had just done. He could see Virginia lying a few feet away, out cold, and pale from the jolt into unconsciousness. Jet looked far worse, his arm twisted at a truly unnatural angle. Gallows just seemed like he was in a very deep sleep, drained of nearly all of his power. Catherine gently touched the side of Clive's face with the back of her hand, brushing out small traces of dirt from his fur. He whimpered, but remained still, afraid to move. "You are going to feel a tiny sting, Clive." She said quietly, parting a small section of his fur to search for one of the veins running down his arms. Some of it was matted with blood, both red and black, but she ignored that and located the correct spot, opening the wooden box that Halle had given her. "It will sting, and then it will begin to hurt a far lot worse. I cannot make the hurt go away, but I can bring your old body back, I think. Please, be patient."

He felt the tiny prick of a needle pierce his skin, virtually painless, until a dull burning began to spread from the contact point, through his veins, the antidote working it's way into his bloodstream as directly as possible. At first, it burnt like one placing his hands very close to a lit fire, just warmth and discomfort, but then the _real_ pain began to kick up, and Clive broke into a instant sweat, gasping and suddenly incredibly thirsty. He felt hot and cold at the exact same time, and his nerves, agitated by the potency of the antidote, writhed under the torment that consumed it, agonizingly horrendous. Clive cried out, tensing every muscle in his body. It felt like somebody was pumping pure silver into his veins.

The ex-drifter grabbed his wrists and tried to hold him down, wondering why the tranquilizer built into the antidote had not kicked in just yet. He had been severely weakened, and she was just barely able to keep the lycan down as he twisted and squirmed in suffering. Halle had been absolutely correct, this was _exactly_ like a drug withdrawal, and it took all the strength she had left in her arms to keep Clive from scratching his own eyes out in hysteria. His fur became slicked down with sweat as the curare finally settled itself into his system, his limbs going numb, though the lycanthrope still whimpered and whined like a frightened animal, shivering. He was clenching his sharp dagger-like teeth as tightly as possible, and she saw that blood was beginning to drip out of the edge of his mouth, cutting his gums with his own teeth.

With a flash of inspiration gained from her mind working at a mile a minute to think of something to ease Clive's hurting, she let go of one of his wrists for a moment to tear off the red hair-band she always wore, the cloth thick and well woven. This idea came from the night when she had given birth to Kaitlyn, when Clive had done the exact same thing, for her. Moving quickly, she wrapped the cloth around her thumb, doubling the digit in it's thickness and making it well-padded. She sat up, leaning over him, and used her most forceful and direct voice, to reach him through his haze of pain. "Clive!" She exclaimed, nearly sharing his torment, "Please, listen to me! Bite down on this, so you do not bite your tongue!" For a long time, it seemed that Clive did not hear her, or could not understand, until he finally tilted his head up and bit down with vice-like ferocity on her thumb, prompting Catherine to cry out from the pain it produced.

__

What am I doing? She asked herself as she felt the flesh of her thumb being squeezed to the limit of it's endurance. _He is going to bite it off if the pain does not subside soon. Oh gods, that hurts…_ But she remained there, now lying across his front, one arm flung around his back, the other one suffering under Clive's powerful jaws. Clive, in turn, was hugging Catherine so close to him and crying, as every cell in his body felt like it was being turned inside out.

Gradually, Catherine began to sense that the sharp pressure on her thumb was beginning to decrease, Clive's teeth becoming blunter and blunter by the second. She heard the sickly sound of bone crunching with a constricting sound, and both of them closed their eyes to the outside world, only having each other to share in their hurt. Finally, after seemingly an eternity of waiting, Clive let go of Catherine's hand and her hair-band slipped off her thumb, slightly bloodied, but generally intact. He went deathly still and let out one great big shuddering breath, tears and sweat running down his face. Catherine felt like she was going to pass out, until…

"Cather…ine…?" He whispered weakly, hands sliding off her back and to his sides. She tilted her head up, to see his face, and met his blurred, almost frightened blue eyes, set in a human-looking face. He smiled at her, out of sheer relief. It was over. They both cried out at exactly the same time and hugged each other, overjoyed to be reunited once more. Clive could not believe it, this was just far too _good_ for him, it was like everything was unreal, surreal. Sighing, he finally looked over the area and found nothing of interest, not that he was looking for anything, just so busy being grateful for Catherine's presence.

And then he felt a small burn across a cut on his left arm, probably caused when he had dragged one claw across his arm during the activation of the antidote. The cut was deep, and now that he was himself again, it would probably take about a week to heal. He didn't care, he never really wanted all those special powers in the first place. He was content to be himself. Clive Winslett, forever. But, thinking for a second and focussing on the injury, he immediately realized one thing, and he bit his lip in confusion.

The cut, still open, was leaking blood. His blood. It was as black as the midnight sky, running down his arm like sandcraft oil.

Clive felt numb again, but not from the effects of the antidote. Carefully, he ran his tongue over the tops of his teeth, feeling the continued presence of his sharp canine fangs. He twitched his tail. It was still there. Looking back down on the open cut, it was now gone. His healing factor continued to work. Clive was still a demon, after all this, he still had one foot on the threshold into Hell. Did this mean that his curse and the demonization were two separate inflictions? They were not connected? Then why did they both happen at exactly the same time? Why was he still a demon?! Had he not suffered enough?!

__

…This means that whatever Catherine did to me… it did not completely work. Or maybe it did, and I am just meant to be a demon forever. What is the meaning of this? Why did this happen? Why did I change so suddenly, if the curse had nothing to do with it? Why am I still so damned, so destined to Hell? **What is the purpose of these dreams I continue to experience?!**

… Oh my gods…

I have realized this now… I still cannot have any interaction with Catherine or Kaitlyn. I can still hurt them, even now. They saved me, but I cannot be **cured**. I am a lost cause… I am meant to suffer… And as long as they know me, and love me, they will suffer too… They will be in misery, because of **me! **No, I will not let them suffer, I will **not** let that happen… _Even… even if I never see them again…_

"Get off me." He said darkly, pushing Catherine away.

She didn't dare resist him or the motion, getting up and stepping away. Clive's eyes looked dull, tired, and seeming to be filled with knowledge that she couldn't even begin to fathom. The drifter used the wall to push himself up to his feet, healed from nearly all previous injuries. All that remained now was an immense weariness that clung stubbornly to his body, making him weak and almost pitiful to look at. Catherine didn't care though, now she had her husband back. "Honey?" She asked, unsure, "Are you alright?" The sniper felt through the objects in his coat pocked once more and retrieved his glasses, putting them back on. However, his expression looked absolutely haunted, unable too look up at her, staring only at the ground.

Clive's voice was an angsty whisper. "No," He replied, leaning against the rocky wall, "I never will be again." His shirt had been torn by some kind of long slash marks, the wounds underneath having disappeared through healing, or Catherine's cure. Now, she could see no fur under the clothing, or anywhere else, except for on his tail, which had still been left behind. She guessed that for some parts of him, they had been a little too late. Clive adjusted his glasses, brushed a smudge of dirt off his cheek, and sighed. "You have beaten the monster inside of my heart, but the deeper evil, the fouler, hate-filled entity, he still lives. That entity, is me." He continued, ashamed of his existence. Clive patted himself on the chest once, to give his declaration emphasis, and even he himself could feel the frost contained within his body, the corruption, the hate. He was filled with hate. His very existence was _hate_.

Catherine took a step forward, and in reflex, Clive took one step to the right and backwards, seeing that he was already up against the wall. "That cannot be true." She breathed, confused. Clive merely remained silent, downcast. "You are yourself again, right? We did everything we were instructed to, we have broken the curse, haven't we?" He did not reply, he _could not_ reply, anything he could say, it would only be an empty lie. But, the truth would hurt her far worse than a lie ever could. What could Clive do? What could he _say_? Catherine let out a shuddering breath and looked down, eliminating his need to reply. She already knew. Without lifting her head to face him, she stated what she believed or assumed to be the truth. "You're not human anymore, are you." It was not a question. "Even with the antidote… We have failed…"

"No." He answered, in the same voice he always had, but the deep schism forming in him was undeniable. He wasn't human, wasn't anything now. "You never failed, Catherine," He replied, shaking his head sadly, "You tried your best, nobody could ask for any more than that. _I_ am the one who has failed, I have failed everyone, Virginia, Gallows, Jet, and especially you and Kaitlyn. Oh gods!" The demon fought away a wave of shame, mixed with self-loathing. "If only I could have remained human for her! She will not have a father anymore, Catherine, I am so sorry!" Clenching his bloodied hands into fists, he shook with anger, rage, and frustration for everything he believed himself to have caused. It was all his fault, and it hurt him so much that it tired him, making the demon sag, the rage spent.

Slowly, Catherine looked up, to see Clive's new form, his demon form. It scared her greatly, even more than his lycan incarnation, because she knew that her husband's soul was present, and not just the body and mind of a mindless animal. He wasn't mindless, he _had_ a soul, but it was now sin-bound, ready to be sent back into Hell. Clive was as pale as one with dire anemia, his light blue eyes bearing a quality of frost, deathly cold, and within that, immense sadness coupled with fear. He was scared. He seemed to radiate something that suggested an otherworldly presence, and when he closed his eyes and smiled faintly, almost out of fright, because she was looking him over, checking him like a specimen, he exposed one or two sharp, gleaming fangs. This was who he was now, the old Clive Winslett, he was dead. It was almost as if this new Clive had killed him, smothered the human inside until it had suffocated. _This_ was the demon, the murderer, the one responsible for so much pain. He had murdered himself, the human part of his soul. After a long moment of silence, Catherine looked away, sharply, hating what she saw. "I can't look at you, Clive… I'm sorry…"

For a second, he didn't respond, but he understood. He could barely stand to see himself; he couldn't imagine what this must be like for somebody like her. Catherine didn't want him, the twisted and damaged body, the fractured soul. _Her_ soul was pure, spotless, how could she ever love a demon such as he? Clive couldn't bring himself to blemish something like that with his existence, not anybody, not _Catherine_. But still, he didn't want to leave her. He felt alone, afraid, without her guiding presence, and her beautiful, grey eyes. Clive would have given anything in the world to see those eyes smile at him once more, for one last time. "Catherine…" He was timid, unsure, and every word he spoke was like a journey into the dark. "Catherine… will you… touch me?"

She imagined touching his cold, clammy skin, holding together bitterness and evil, and sunk to her knees, hands over her face, crying. "I can't! I can't…" She sobbed, shoulders shaking with the words. Clive lowered his blue eyes and turned his face when he saw Catherine's reaction, his chest tight with suppressed emotion, too many feelings to be separately identified. He could see it, his inner voice had been correct. She _hated_ him, just as he hated himself. It was the right thing, to hate a demon, but even so, he still expected somewhere in the back of his heart and mind, that there would still be a flicker of light left in the darkness. It was a shock to know that the light, ever present, had just been an illusion, born of false hope. His light had gone out.

__

She does not cry for me, she cries for herself. She cries to understand that the entity once believed to be her husband has changed while she remains the same, and has accepted a fate that will distance himself from her, and her daughter. She cries because **she** has lost something… Not me… She does not care for me… Nobody can…

Clive moved over and sat down in front of her, also on his knees, his eyes overshadowed by the darkness caught in the lenses of his glasses. He had never felt such fear before, the chance of being hated by a loved one. His Catherine, he knew that she hated him. Lightly, he placed his ungloved hands on both of her shoulders, the woman tensing sharply from the contact, and the feeling of cold flowing into her body via the connection. He paused to experience the powerful sensation of warmth that radiated from her body, it felt so good, and therefore, never meant for him ever again. But he wanted this, wanted one last moment, the time he needed to say goodbye. "It is okay… just, just please stay with me for a while, for a minute. Please, please look at me…"

__

Oh gods, please look at me. Please touch me. Do **anything**, Catherine, anything, just do not turn away… Don't leave me alone… I can't stand to live alone… I don't want to be alone…

And she obeyed, raising her head to look upon his pale face. It only took a second, and Catherine choked back a sob, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears escaped down the corners of her eyelids, her breathing uneven and harsh. It felt like her heart was going to give out at any moment. Crying out loud, she grabbed him in a fierce hug, tight, for solace, for an escape. It had all gone wrong, and in their failure Clive was left to spend the rest of his life as a demon. How could he stand it? How could he stand to live with himself? Catherine sniffled and told him, "This was not your fault, Clive." He shook his head in response, disagreeing. For a brief second, she saw an image of Clive standing outside the front of their house, ARM slung securely behind one shoulder, watching the horizon, just as the sun came up. It quickly vanished, like a dying breeze. She would never see that part of him again. "But I… But I cannot change it… I cannot help you… Gods, I wish I could help you…" 

The demon could barely keep his own tears away, and with Catherine's head resting against his neck and under his chin, they fell onto her light brown hair, soft and silky to the touch. "I understand," He said quietly, moving one hand around to support her back, "But you need not do anything, Catherine. I have brought Kaitlyn back… She is nearby… I promised that I would… And now, just please stay with me… stay with me, just for this moment…" He was quavering, still somehow afraid to touch her, just in case he hurt her. His hand rested only a millimeter away from her soft cheek, hesitant. He just couldn't bear to hurt her again, with words, with feelings, or with force. But, Catherine's hand came to rest over his own, pressing his own against her cheek. It only made her feel colder, but the touch was enough, just to know that it came from Clive.

"I want to…" She whispered, trying her best to ignore the intense cold of the contact with him, though it numbed her body and made her feel anxious and sick on the inside. It nearly seemed like his very touch was poisoning something deep within her body, which wasn't really surprising, considering what he was. "I love you. I don't care if you are a demon. Please, don't hurt yourself anymore. When you hurt, _I_ hurt, I can feel your hurt… Please, Clive, Honey… I will stay with you. I will love you." Carefully, she dragged his hand away from her cheek and held it against her breast, entwining their fingers together and not letting go. She sighed, sinking into his chest, but Clive, surprisingly, pulled away, like he had suddenly decided that enough was enough, or as a reaction to one of her words. He wanted to have a moment, and it was now over.

He was introverted, looking away. Without conscious thought, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and sighed. Clive sat back, cross legged, and looked up at the darkened ceiling, almost impossible to see. There was a sky somewhere above it, though it was now hidden. The next few words he would have to say proved to be the most difficult ones of his entire life. Catherine looked down and slightly to the right, feeling warmth return to her body now that Clive had let go. She felt ashamed to admit it herself, but the release had been a big relief. "You say you will love me, that you will stay with me…" The demon's voice was a dull monotone, his face expressionless. "But look!" He smiled hollowly, out of his own ironic misfortune, "You can barely even stand to _look_ at me, let alone love me!" The emotion in his voice picked up as he continued, standing up. "I am poison! I hurt you! I hurt _everyone_! No matter what I try to resolve, all I do is hurt them…"

Catherine's reply was just as burdened with pain as Clive's was, her hands clenching in agitation. "What do you wish for me to do?!" She cried, "Do not just remain ambiguous! Tell me your problems, share them with me. As your wife, it is my duty to share your pain." She met his gaze, hardened by contempt to both her, and the world. She had never seen those blue eyes hold so much _hatred_ before, like he had been saving it up inside his mind for years and years, and it finally had a perfect chance to come out again. Clive never had a mother or father, he was denied his childhood by living as a common ruffian, and his best friend had betrayed him in the most horrible way possible. To top it all off, his mind had been merged with a monster's, and his body replaced by a demon's. Clive had a lot to be hateful about, was this his true self? Had the other Clive Winslett, the one she had married, just been a lie?

The metal demon, spat on the ground, folding his arms across his chest, much like the way Boomerang used to do when he didn't want to be talked to. He used a blunt, gruff way of speaking, because if he tried to show any tenderness at all, the effort and emotion would have destroyed him. He had to be numb, he had to seal off his pain, it was the only way he could continue forward, and protect both himself and the others. Clive had to be cruel to be kind, because if he were to even _try_ and stay with his friends and family, he could keep no promise that they would be safe around him, when he possessed such great power. The power meant responsibility, and he would not let himself become responsible for Catherine or Kaitlyn's deaths. He had enough death piled upon his shoulders already. He _loved_ his family, he would _not_ watch them die.

"What I wish for you to do…" He answered, his tone final and solemn in the air. "I wish for you to leave me. Take Kaitlyn with you. I want you to never speak to me again, never touch me again. I want you to go away, and never come back." He bowed his head, tears dripping under his glasses and along the bridge of his nose. The words enough, killed him. They burnt into his very soul. But he did not let Catherine see this. To the outside world, he had the perfect calm of a true metal demon. Clive took one last breath to continue, sliding his eyes closed.

"I never want to see you again." He said.


	64. You're Not Alone!

This was hell on Filgaia, Catherine thought.

Clive had his back to her, facing the wall, as if he could somehow see his reflection within an invisible mirror. He hunched over a little, grunting softly, in quiet pain. Catherine got up and moved over to him, yet still kept her distance, afraid of provoking in him a dangerous action. "Clive?" She whispered, reaching one arm out to touch him, but pausing just in time before the contact was met. "Are you… are you okay?" It was a stupid question, _of course_ he was not okay, any fool could see that. But still, she felt that she had to say at least _something_. The demon let out a sigh and shook his head, slowly dropping his hands to his sides. They looked so pale without proper human blood, so cold, so unreachable. His hands clenched slightly, painfully, like they were experiencing trouble doing so.

"I wonder… if I can go on like this…" He rasped softly, unmoving from his position and still facing the wall, his eyes down. Gradually, he could feel his body beginning to weaken, smiling sadly at the sensation. "I have no future. I am the only one left of my kind. The only one…" He thought upon this for a short moment, wondering what the other demons would have thought of him. A weakling, maybe? An equal? Who really knew? He would never know now. Clive just shrugged the bad thoughts away. "This does not bother me very much, because I am in agreement with the destruction of the demon race. We are-, _I_ am deserving of that punishment. The closer I sink into this dank, dark pit, the less remorse I begin to feel as more death and hurt is distributed. One is exchanged for the other, fluidly, smoothly. I am numbed by it, it poisons, and is representative of my own soul. If I am to die…" He chuckled in mid-sentence, his consciousness becoming hazy from a draining weakness. "Then I wish to die with a human's heart. I will keep it to the very end. That is why… I choose this path." He turned around to face Catherine, his arms hanging limply. His eyes were blurred with tears. "I choose death." He said.

Clive had slashed both his wrists.

It was practically a perfect cut, horizontally across both wrists, and deep enough to have cut his wrists nearly in two. His veins ripped open, dark blood was pouring out of his wrists and oozing onto the floor at ungodly amounts, running down his hands, collecting and dripping at his fingertips. Clive had the sharp edge of his knife blade in his right hand, slicked with the blood, and it fell, clattering onto the floor. It had served it's ultimate purpose. The numbness was covering his body in it's warm embrace, he felt no pain, and what Ravendor had once told him seemed to be correct. Suicide was painless. Nothing hurt anymore, the pain had stopped, and he hoped fervently with all his soul that he just might be able to get enough blood out to expire, just enough before his healing factor could kick in and save him. It was his prayer, his salvation. This was his only way out.

His extra-sensitive hearing was dulled by his loss of blood, and hearing Catherine's cry of surprise made it sound like it was happening far away, her voice oddly distant. His smile was one of weak submission to a greater force, and he fell backwards as all the strength left his legs, now leaning against the stone wall. His hands felt even colder than the coldest ice, wet with blood, and turning slightly purplish at the cuts over his wrists. Suddenly, intense pressure was clamped upon each wound, a vice-like hold, cutting off his draining circulation. Catherine held his bleeding wrists in a grip of steel, her arms and shoulders shaking from emotion. "Is this it?!" She cried, trying her best not to dig her nails into his hands by all the hysteria she was expending. "Is this the way you choose to end everything?! You will leave us all behind?! Gods damn you, Clive Winslett! Stop running like a coward and _face_ your fear! You've run from everything for far too long! Don't run from us as well! You are _not_ alone, your friends and your family are here to help you!"

"Let me go!" Clive yelled, trying to tear himself away from Catherine's grip. Sheer force of will and Clive's weakened condition made it possible for Catherine to just hold on tight enough, the amount of pressure she placed upon his wrists able to keep all his leaking blood in. She had to hold down in this struggle, if she could do that long enough, then he could heal and be saved. She would _not_ allow him to fall. "Let me die!" He attempted to shake his arms free feebly once more, lashing his tail around in agitation and gritting his teeth. "I _deserve_ to die, just let it end! I killed three townspeople, and two merchants! Two more bandits are also dead! I injured a young boy and crippled another, and I wounded at least a dozen more! I nearly raped a fellow drifter! I am a horrible person! I deserve this, just let me _die_!" Tears were streaming down his face, and every exclaimed sentence was followed by him trying to rip Catherine away.

The demon was pressed against the wall when Catherine still refused to let go and used her weight to pin him there, taking advantage of his lack of strength. Though she knew she was not meant to touch him, she leaned into his chest, sobbing once and _only_ once. Her anger had left, and now all she had was weariness. "Don't you know…" She whispered, her own hands going cold from continual contact with Clive's. "Don't you know that… the more times you run away… The worse things always get next time. Every flight is like a chain shackling you down, until you cannot fly anymore. We were all so scared to face what we feared… that we ran away from it, and the burden of the chains consumed us all…" She raised his hand so that she could press the back of it's bloodstained surface to her cheek. The past was their chains, the distant past. "Don't you know… who you sound like?" She finally finished, after some strain. 

__

"Let me die, Clive… I'm so tired of everything. How can I go on living everyday with nothing to look forward to?"

His eyes widened and his body went completely limp, no longer resisting Catherine's grip. Without even knowing it, Clive had descended into a hell that his very own brother had already trodden, a bleak and horizonless hell that had no way out. No way out, except death. It was suffocating, but now he understood. The demon understood Ravendor's hell, a zone of silence with grief built like building blocks, heaped upon each other. His wish had become the same as Ravendor's, he just wanted to die.

The thought of them becoming so similar panicked him, and he tried to rip his arms away again, with twice as much force as what he should have held in his body, letting out a mad yell of frustration. Catherine barely held on, dead set on not letting him bleed to death. It was a wonder in itself that she still managed to hang on. "Gods damn it! _Let me go_, Catherine!" He roared, slowly beginning to feel her hands slipping on his wet blood. "Let me die! Damn you, woman! _Don't touch me_!" With a great burst of demonic strength, temporarily overriding Catherine's intense feelings, Clive hands slipped free and he was released, feeling a slight rush of dizziness consume him as the very last few drops of his spilt blood was released. Then, he did not bleed anymore. He looked at his hands, slicked with demon blood. The reason he did not bleed anymore was because the long cuts had healed. He was healed. He would not die. Clive was lost in the tumult of his own emotions, and pure rage overtook him with a white hot fire. Lowering his arms for a moment, they shook, and then acted.

He struck Catherine across the face. Hard.

It was almost as if she had expected it, going down to meet the floor without much of a fight at all. It was strange, though, she had braced herself for it nearly a second before it had happened, even thought Clive had never raised a hand against her in her life. His touches had always been kind, soft. Now all they did was distribute cold and pain. Catherine fell in a way that nearly made it seem like slow motion was present, strands of chestnut brown hair falling across her face as she landed quietly on her side. Tears beaded at the corners of her eyes, and they were wide with disbelief.

Clive was in silent shock. He sunk to his knees and looked once more at his hands. His right hand stung from when Clive had hit her. He wanted to cut it off. Instead, he hugged himself and doubled over in agony, burying his face in his arms and swearing softly yet fiercely. "I'm so sorry…" He said hoarsely, "I cannot help it… I just always… hurt people…" Slowly, he shuffled forward to Catherine and touched her shoulder, looking down upon her saddened face. She seemed to be withdrawn, vacant, tossed aside like an old doll. Her eyes streamed tears that ran down one side of her face, pressed against the dirt. Clive brushed obscuring strands of hair away and put an arm around her back, pulling her up into a sitting position. Her blank eyes stared up at him, and she mouthed out one word with no sound, simply asking; 'Why?'

"I don't know!" He wailed, not having the faintest idea on why the demon race chose to act in the way they did. "I wish I knew… Why am I… a demon?" Clive wasn't even sure if he was acting like a proper demon in the first place, except for the merciless killing part. How could he answer a question so close to the heart of demonkind? The only thing he could think of was, this was just the way things are. He hugged her, and she hugged back, both husband and wife embracing in the harsh reality that fate had chosen to impart upon them. They could push reality out of their minds for just that one moment.

Just for the moment, nothing else mattered. 

xxx

"Clive… Why did you marry me?"

The metal demon raised his head slightly as he was unexpectedly asked a question. He and Catherine had been sitting in the darkness for a long time, leaning up against the side of the cavern, letting the silent flow of time go by. Catherine was sitting in his lap, arms around his back, with her face pressing against his neck. She had developed a light bruise from where Clive had hit her, but it did not matter to her in the slightest. He was unstable, she knew that, but she still loved him. But the silence was unbearable, and she just had to break it with a question, trying to unravel the chains of torment that were ensnaring her husband's mind. He seemed to be confused by the unusual question, but he was now much more calmer than he had been a while ago. He smiled. "Because I fell in love with you, of course."

This was not the answer she had been looking for, Clive must have misunderstood the content of the question. She shifted slightly in her place, where Clive had wrapped his tail around both her and himself. She was stroking it gently, it was very soft. Her body felt cold from his contact, but after a while, it became a little less difficult to tolerate, becoming accustomed to the absence of warmth. "No, that is not what I mean," She said, "How about this? Why did you fall in love with me?"

He had to think, closing his eyes. He knew the answer, but it was very hard to explain in words, and a little embarrassing in itself. He had to pick his wording carefully, then. "When I lost my eyesight," Clive began, looking out into the darkness before him, "I lost the last bit of value I had left in myself. I wanted to be a drifter, and I finally _was_ one, but with no vision, there would be no chance that I could keep myself alive out there in the wastelands. The concept of a blind drifter was simply an impossible one. I was so poor, I didn't have a single gella, and it looked like I would eventually die." Silently, he raised a hand and looked at his wrist, where the cut had healed. The suicide attempt had been foolish, he had been so _stupid_.

"But then," He continued, "I knew that you, Catherine, had suffered far worse than I did. You were more than half-dead, and nobody was left to take care of you, except for your father and I. We didn't have any money, and we could barely afford a doctor for you, so I took over that job for myself. I was only nineteen at the time, but I think I did my best, well, the best that any blind doctor could have done." He nearly laughed at that distant memory. In the beginning, he had walked into an innumerable amount of doors and walls.

"You did well." She inputted, leaning into him. "I thought that any doctor that I could have been given would have ended up being a pervert, except for you, because you could not see anything anyway. However, seeing you with a syringe frightened the life out of me."

He nodded, understanding her fear. He had been a little afraid himself, in the chance that she could have easily died. "My point is," He pressed on, "Was that afterwards, when you became healthier, you took care of me, just the same. You were like a lifeline, and I didn't really need my sight at all to enjoy life. Nobody had ever… been so kind to me before. I never had a mother, so I didn't know how it was supposed to feel like, except for that on the day when I got my sight back, the first thing I saw was you, and I knew that I could love nobody else. I suppose your kindness crept into me, because I had never been loved so unconditionally like that, not even once."

"Then let me take care of you." Catherine said, reaching up to touch his cold cheek. His chin felt scratchy, he needed to shave again soon. Clive shook his head at her declaration, unwilling to let her stay with him. Doing that would only hurt her more. The ex-drifter sighed, she would have to try and get her point across even better. "Clive, do you remember my scars? Do you remember how I thought that I would never be the same, that I would be ugly to the outside word? How I feared that I would never be who I used to be?"

"You were never ugly," He began, "You were-"

"That isn't my point," She cut in, "My point is that whether I liked it or not, I changed. Both inside and outside. But Clive, even through that, did you love me? Did you continue to love me?" Catherine did not allow him to answer just yet. "You fear change. That is a natural emotion when faced with new obstacles to cross. You are a demon, yes, but will you let that stop you? Will you let that destroy you? If such change frightens you so much right now, then why didn't you kill yourself eleven years ago when you lost your sight?"

Clive was stumped. He didn't have an answer. Catherine was right. Before, she had been a different person, more forceful, more eager and sure of herself, but after the accident, she had grown to be meeker and far more frail. Still, he loved her, even if she became a shadow of her former self. She began to call her life after the accident her 'retirement', and after Kaitlyn was born, none of them looked back anymore. Yggdrasil probably had a hand in that too, but Clive finally saw the truth, and made a decision. He would let himself live. He was a fool, but even a fool can have his wise moments.

Strangely on cue, they both heard a voice. "Mama? Daddy?" Kaitlyn appeared from around the bend in the tunnel, dusty and dirty, but more importantly, still alive. Catherine got up on reflex and ran to her, grabbing the little girl in her arms. Clive did the same but much slower, feeling a weak case of pin-and-needles in his legs. Kaitlyn started to cry as she was hugged, overwhelmed by everything that had happened. Catherine joined in, thanking the Guardians over and over again that she was safe. The little girl looked around, rubbing at her eyes. "Wh-what's wrong with them?" She asked, pointing at the unconscious Maxwell Gang. "What happened?" They broke their three-way hug to look at the injured others, getting up and attending to the wounded. Even Kaitlyn tried her best to help.

Virginia stirred, moaning a little, because it felt like somebody had just beaten her head in with a large piece of wood. Her arms went cold as she opened her eyes, being propped up against the wall. Clive took her pulse, breathed a sigh of relief when it seemed to be regular, and caught the drifter leader staring at him with perplexity, making him smile slightly. Catherine was doing her best to resuscitate Gallows, despite the Baskar's apparent desire to remain asleep. Nobody had attended to Jet just yet, except for Kaitlyn who was quietly sitting by him and making sure that he continued to breathe, because they would need Gallows's healing powers to do so. Virginia covered her mouth with her hand and coughed for a bit, and Clive patted her on the back sympathetically. "I am here." He said, "I have returned. How do you feel?"

"My head is killing me," She replied, rubbing the side of her temple, "You hit me pretty hard." Then realisation suddenly struck her and she looked up at him, amazed. "Clive! You're yourself again! Catherine, did she- did it work?" Clive sat down in front of her, self conscious of the fact that he was splattered with so much blood. Most of it had dried except for his own. His wrists had healed, though they still bore a thin red line, a small pair of scars. For some reason, they refused to completely disappear.

"More or less." He smiled, adjusting his glasses. "More or less."

The female drifter stood up and wobbled precariously, trying to find her footing. Her balance was slightly off course, but Kaitlyn was suddenly there and helped her out, the little girl beaming with affection. Virginia looked around and saw Gallows climb shakily to his feet with Catherine helping him, reinforcing his lost energy with a heal spell. Now more sure of himself, both Virginia and the Baskar rushed over to Jet's sprawled body, lying deathly still. Gallows straightened the boy out and checked his arm, hanging limply at a gruesome angle. Knowing what he had to do, he wrenched the arm back into the socket as quickly as he possibly could. Jet awoke with a start as a reaction to the pain and groaned, his face as white as a ghost. Gallows folded Jet's arm across his stomach and cast a more powerful kind of heal spell, the greatest he could muster.

"How's that feel then, eh?" He asked, removing Jet's red and white bandanna from around his neck to be used as material for a sling. The android's eyes focussed on Clive who was standing a little ways nearby, blackening for a short while as the intended equivalent of 'You fucking bastard.' Then, they softened and Jet closed his eyes as Gallows worked, making sure his arm was set straight. He helped Jet up and the silver-haired youth clambered to his feet with seemingly no effort, looking down at his bound arm. How the hell was he supposed to use his airget-lamh now? Oh well, he'd eventually find a way. Now, they turned to Clive, seeking answers.

He could feel their eyes on him like a spotlight of interrogation, but they all remained silent, Kaitlyn sidling up to her father and slipping her hand in his. It still had blood on it, but nobody seemed to care. Clive looked down, and shrugged halfheartedly, once again adjusting his glasses as a means of procrastination. The dizziness he could associate with his suicide attempt was beginning to fade away, and he felt a little bit stronger for it. Now, he had to clear his head and think of what to do next. "Everyone. I am so sorry that I put you through all this… this…" He searched for a proper describing word, temporarily forgetting that Kaitlyn was right beside him. "This _bullshit_." The girl blinked, she had never heard that word before. She wondered what it meant. "I hurt everyone, and there is no apology that I can give that will make up for what I have committed…" What could he do now? They had gotten Kaitlyn back, and he was free from the full moon's curse. What more did they _need_ to do? He sighed again. "But now, I think, it is all finally ove-"

__

Thud.

__

Thud.

The walls shook with a distant force, making small stones escape their position in the wall and fall down harmlessly around them. A steady rumble that bore the distinct quality of footsteps echoed throughout the ruin, making the Maxwell Gang and the Winslett family all look up and sense the disturbance. What on Filgaia could make a sound like _that_? Could anything that big fit into this place? Catherine and Clive shot each other a look of mutual confusion, and Kaitlyn held onto her father's hand even tighter. Jet picked up his dropped machine gun, slotting it into the space above his dislocated arm. It fit perfectly. Something was horribly wrong.

"Err…" Gallows mumbled, "Just how stable is this place? Really?" He remembered Catherine's tale and became a lot more uneasy, looking at the walls with mistrust. Virginia lost her balance and fell to her knees, where Jet promptly helped her back onto her feet with the only working arm he had left. They held onto each other for support, and it almost looked cute, had the situation been less dire. The sound was getting gradually louder, and the walls shook even more. Whatever they were hearing, it was definitely coming to get them.

Clive's mind worked unbelievably fast, knowing that they all couldn't stay her for long. This small place was like a trap, he would not allow them to stay here and be exposed like a line of sitting ducks. They had to move to a place with a greater area, more ground to cover. They had to move _now_. "Listen to me!" The demon commanded, and from the way he shouted, it would have made the Quarter Knights proud. "We must move out! There is a large chamber up ahead! I am not sure what that noise is, but it cannot be friendly! Move! Now!" He couldn't really remember consciously which way was the correct path to the large chamber, so he let instinct do the navigating for him, running at just the right speed so Kaitlyn could keep pace. The others followed him closely behind, not daring to argue. Clive had many problems to figure out, but now was certainly not the time.

All around them, the noise just got louder.


	65. Brotherly Hate

The team of people, drifters, an ex-drifter, a small child, and a demon all burst into the giant chamber from a long and winding pathway, being led by a sniper that was practically stepping over his own feet in exhaustion. He set down the little girl he had been carrying and ushered them away from the great walls around them, shaking under the stress of the repeated thudding movements. He had led them _further_ into the cave rather than out of it, because Clive had a pretty good idea of the source of the noise. It was the only loose end he had left to tie up, and it would probably become the most difficult.

"Arm yourselves, everyone!" He called in such a commanding tone, that the others didn't even dare to disobey him. Silently, Catherine passed Clive back his gun, who accepted it with a fond nod. She noticed this only gradually, but whenever Clive had raised his voice lately, it sounded different, like the voice of somebody else. Though she did not know it, Catherine was recognizing the voice of Boomerang, creeping into Clive's identity. Kaitlyn took her mother's hand and also stayed quiet, though she had a thousand questions set aside to ask. She also noticed this change too. The metal demon raised a hand, and pointed into the shadows at the far end of the room, where the deep ambient sounds were radiating from. The three other members of the Maxwell Gang obligingly pointed their weapons at the darkness, waiting to see what would happen next. Clive lowered his voice, and did not know where his next few words came from.

"…Pathetic fool, seeking the dreams of the sleeping souls and lost ones…" He hissed, "Come out of your hiding, damned raven. Come out and face the light." Virginia and Catherine looked uncertainly at Clive, but the weak light shining off his glasses did not show them their true colour. Clive's hand came to rest by his sides, just after slinging Gungnir over his shoulder. It almost seemed like he was going to make a grab for an item that he expected to be there, but wasn't.

__

Thud. Thud.

He emerged almost like it was on Clive's command, or else, it must have been impeccable timing. The shadows, nearly solid at the very back end of the great chamber, parted way to allow a great form space, it's armored feet crushing rock and stone underfoot. Blood red metal plating moved with tremendous effort, a low rumble of a huge engine powering the great beast onwards. Most of the colour drained from the human's faces as they saw this monster, plodding, at a pace of near eternity, over to the weak bodies, puny and flimsy in comparison. Comparing themselves to this giant would be like comparing an ant to a fully grown horse, and it felt the same, too. They all got the feelings that as they lived through their lives and died, that this creature would survive the impact of the ages, and live on forever. Gallows dropped his gun while he gaped, Virginia lowered her arms, unsure of whether to be impressed, or frightened. Jet looked stoic, but he was gripping his gun more tightly than usual, his face drawn and tight.

A long time passed, and then strangely ceremoniously, Diablo raised it's arms and held the great limbs out in front of it's body, not vertically, but with it's elbows bent, in a horizontal 'C' shape, leaving room between it's hands with it's stubby fingers splayed out and still. The giant groaned, lowering it's head, bowing it, like it was in some kind of prayer. For now, it had made no moves to attack the drifters in front of it, yet. A figure emerged, appearing in a slow hazing motion, right in the center of the golem's bent arms. It floated like it was suspended in zero gravity, seemingly asleep, standing straight, but with it's head tilted back so that it would be looking at the ceiling, had it's eyes been open. The figure glowed faintly, surrounded by a silver aura. They all recognized this figure instantly, it was definitely Ravendor.

He opened his eyes suddenly, like a machine being switched on, and lent forward, with the motion of somebody getting used to an old body again. That was exactly what he was doing. Diablo shut itself down, for the time being. Ravendor looked over the motley team of people assembled in front of him, and fixed his gaze specifically on Clive. How different the drifter looked now, less cheerful, less childlike. So _serious_, so _careworn_. However, there were others in the group that also had his personal attention. "A pleasure to see you all again, truly." He said mildly, though hidden poison dripped off each syllable. "Milady Maxwell, Jet, and my dear friend Clive, how are you all doing?"

The demon's grip on the strap of his ARM tightened considerably, but so also did Catherine's grip on his other hand, calming him down. She looked at him worriedly, but Clive made no other motion than that. Jet was scowling at the dark-haired man, and it seemed that his trigger finger was getting awfully itchy, but, out of all of them, it was Virginia who cracked first, with hardly any provocation at all. "Don't you dare call me that!" She said darkly, aiming her pistols straight at his heart. "How dare you! How dare you mess around with people's families like that?! Have you no conscience at all?!"

The bandit leader smiled. "Yes, I see the resemblance now." He said softly, in almost a soothing voice. "I was puzzled at first, because you looked so much like your mother, but now I can see that part of Werner in you, it is almost like a fire flickering in the darkness. You are his daughter, little Virginia, correct? I remember once, he showed me a few of his photos. You seem to have grown up in his moral image." He appeared to be satisfied at her reaction to his words, which was blatant shock. He nodded once. "Yes, I understand, but it puzzles me. I have always considered Werner stone dead, since ten years ago." Ravendor spread his arms. "But here he is! Back in flesh and blood. His daughter. Will you continue the family business, I wonder?"

Jet pushed Virginia back, as if to shield the girl from Ravendor's words. "Shut the fuck up!" He yelled, the knuckles on his hands growing white from the lack of blood, as he pressed his fingers against the airget-lamh's surface. "Don't you say _nothin'_ to her! You gotta get through to _me_, first!" He raised his weapon, but something held him back from firing. Ravendor knew exactly what it was. The boy took a step back as Ravendor let his arms settle by his sides, and he cocked his head in curiosity.

"Jet Enduro? I did have something important that I wish to say to you… Hmm… Let me think…" Ravendor put a hand on his chin, while the other supported his elbow, looking to be in mock thought while he obviously already knew what he was going to say. Throughout all of this he kept a small, patronizing smile. "Ah yes! I remember now." Ravendor pointed to his face, drawing attention to his bright green eyes. He did this so that Jet would recognize the colour of his own lavender eyes. "Jet Enduro had dark brown eyes, almost black in colour, as I recall. Elliot tried his best to make you exactly like his long dead son, but that was one aspect of your anatomy that we simply could not change. It does not matter," He said, shrugging, "Because you are _not_ Jet Enduro, you are Adam Kadmon, correct?"

Jet's fist was clutched so tightly that he probably could have squeezed blood from a stone. "You _knew_?!" He exclaimed. "I was followin' you around for a godfucking year wondering who the fuck I was, and you **_knew_**?!"

"Of course." Ravendor replied calmly. "I was there, Kadmon. I was there on the day you were born, did you know that? I was the one who broke open your glass birthchamber and delivered you into the world." His smile did not waver. "Why else would I have allowed you to become my apprentice for so long? Would I have left such great promise, such hard work go to waste? Had you died, so too would the hope that Filgaia had been given. I would never have let that happen. Adam Kadmon, Elliot and Werner's greatest hope. I owed them both a favor, it was the least that I could do."

The silver-haired android dropped his weapon to the ground, and sat down heavily afterwards, bowing his head. Virginia knelt, and put an arm around his back. Jet shook his head and said a few illegible words, the only recognizable sound being; "…lying…"

Finally, Ravendor turned his attention onto Clive, his smile momentarily fading. They both exchanged very serious looks. Then, Ravendor glanced at Catherine. She blushed and buried her face in Clive's shoulder. Clive put an arm around her waist, in a slightly protective motion. He stayed silent, though he still bore a lingering desire from his previous curse to growl deeply at the dark-haired man and attack him. Ravendor hid his emotions well. "…You… look older…" He said, "Peculiar… I never would have imagined you with glasses before…"

"…Yes…" Clive agreed, now that they had finally met up, he didn't know what he should say. It felt exactly like that night seventeen years ago, when Ravendor had tried to kill himself. Now, it was very different. There was a chance that he might just kill _him_. "I never would have imagined… That you would kidnap my daughter in exchange for the deaths of my team and I."

His voice was cold. "I care not for the lives of any of your teammates. Let them live, if that is what you truly want. But Clive, dear Clive, it is _you_ that I want dead. Kadmon no longer has a purpose for the world except for his own, and the Maxwell child obviously has taken her own path. I do not give a damn about the priest." His smile came back. "No, wait. I have thought of something. He may be allowed to bury you, how does that sound?"

"If he is to bury any of us, it will be you." Clive answered in a deadly tone.

This statement was ignored. Ravendor leaned forward and looked at Clive like he was enjoying a private joke, chuckling a little. "I have just realized something, Clive!" He said jovially. "You have dropped your Little Twister accent! But it was so _novel_ before! Did my lessons actually _work_ now? That is a comforting thought. However, now I can no longer tell precisely _who_ you are the product of! I seem to recall… yes… Was your mother not a two-gella-whore and your father one of her boundless clients?"

Virginia stood up, fed off the hurtful statement directed at her friend, and fired her twin pistols with perfect aim at Ravendor's heart. She was brash, yes, over-emotional, that was also true, but she would not let a close friend take that kind of abuse! 

Ravendor flickered out of sight like a computer monitor fuzzing in and out, and the two fired bullets passed though him with no effort whatsoever, hitting the metal-plated stomach of the golem and leaving not a scratch. The bandit leader reappeared with minimal distortion and slowly folded his arms, shaking his head like he was reprimanding a disobedient child. His expression was that of smug condescension, the kind of look that would want to make a person hit somebody for absolutely no reason at all. "Do you not all understand," He said smoothly and softly, "The difference between a true physical body and that of a hologram? How sad." Virginia glowered and lowered her weapons, incapable of dealing damage. 

The bandit leader smiled at her frustration. "I apologise for this awkward meeting, but I am unable to speak with you in my actual form. My transformative process has yet to be completed, and existing in a quasi-electrical state is my only method of visual and vocal interaction." Clive narrowed his eyes when he heard this. Quasi-electrical? It sounded remarkably similar to the composition of a dream-demon. Was that how he was manipulating the golem to his will? Ravendor merely continued without obstruction. "However, I hope you find entertainment in this particular incarnation." His hologram became slightly translucent, and Diablo seemingly spread his arms on a silent command, steam and smoke rising from the blood red armor. Ravendor lowered his hands to his sides, and as his image faded, it left with a conceit-filled proclamation. "I am Diablo, the Crimson Hellstorm!" 

The golem exploded into life, letting out a bellow that would have frozen armies back during the great wars that had plagued Filgaia. The four humans and one demon all reached for their weapons, grabbing for their only defense against such a foe, the sounds of safety catches coming off and the incredibly familiar sound of a pistol being reloaded. Clive found that he had no viable weapon and powered up for an arcana attack instead, a slight aura appearing around his body. Then, both he and Catherine remembered Kaitlyn at exactly the same time and rushed over to her, making sure to hide the girl carefully behind a fairly large stone. She did not question either of them, and curled up tightly, covering her eyes. She did not want to see this, none of it at all.

Jet reacted first. Out of all the Maxwell Gang besides Clive, he seemed to have the least amount of love lost between himself and the dark-haired man. Growling, he whipped his airget-lamh out of his sling and used his dislocated arm like a steadying stand, firing a volley of bullets into the belly of the great golem. They rung like they were striking a hollow surface when the volley made their impact, but no visual damage was made. Diablo didn't even appear to notice that he had been attacked. But, he did retaliate. The golem flexed his fingers and flames poured from out of his palms, intensely burning, punishing, and directed straight for the humans in front of him.

"Fuck, duck!" Gallows cried, hitting the dirt and unaware that he had just rhymed perfectly, hands over his head. Virginia gasped and hauled Jet to the ground, accidentally jarring his injured arm. He grunted in pain, but instinctively spread his body over hers, to shield the girl from the fire. Clive did likewise with Catherine, fearing only for her safety, because he was protected by his fire medium and a fully functioning fire ward. Flames poured over their heads, like a floating river of fire, just missing their frail human bodies. Smoke was minimal, left out for some kind of plot by the human within the golem's shell. That was just a practice shot, a test to see Diablo's true abilities.

Catherine shook underneath Clive's body, uttering a short gasp of fear. When the flames had finally receded, he got off her and sniffed the air. This fire smelt different to regular fire, it wasn't made the same, out of the proper chemicals. Clive sensed that the fire probably wouldn't be enough to put the inferno out. "Catherine," He said softly, "Do not worry. I do not think he will harm you personally, as long as you stay out of the way. Please, go back and protect Kaitlyn. Please." Two 'pleases'. He must have been incredibly serious. Nodding, the ex-drifter got up and ran to Kaitlyn's side, hiding with her behind the rock that had acted like a shield against the flame attack. Clive took special note that Ravendor did not move to attack her when he easily had the chance, but let her go instead. He could not see through the thick armor to the person underneath, but he knew that there was definitely somebody inside.

Diablo roared again and put his metal-plated fist through the wall, just above where Clive was lying. The metal demon only had barely enough time to get up and avoid the falling rain of rocks that clattered around him, skidding out of the area and making a grab for his Gungnir ARM lying unheeded on the ground. It felt wonderful again to touch the weapon he had been brought up to fight with, it somehow rooted him more firmly to his convictions, to his courage. He stood up with the weapon in both hands, gently squeezing it as he looked upon the giant monster looming above his comrades. In the back of his mind, something felt a little wrong, a little missing, but he was barely in the proper frame of mind to think about such things.

Gallows chanted an arcane verse and raised his hands, feeling an amount of cooling air battle it's way into existence with the superheated atmosphere that the golem was creating. Slowly, the air condensed itself with a few faint pinpoints of light, glowing and fading into nothingness, and a shape appeared, that of a deadly and jagged shard of ice. Though composed of frozen water, nothing aqueous existed in this item, it was made purely for one magical purpose. Gallows grabbed a hold of it and tensed his arms, getting ready. Vocalizing his exertion with a loud grunt, he hurled the piece of ice straight at the monster. _Cold against heat,_ He thought, _This'll 'prolly slow it down…_

It smashed upon the armor like waves upon a cliff-side, making absolutely no markings whatsoever. Diablo, withdrew it's fist from the shattered wall, and leant back, steam being expelled from vents in it's side because of the energy taken. Gallows cursed and moved out of the way, getting his Coyote ARM ready to fire. "Magic don't work, and bullets don't work either! What the hell _is_ this thing?!" He yelled to the others, narrowly missing another wave of fire being spread around the room. Gallows felt a burn and checked his arm, pouring blood from a sharp rock falling from the ceiling. Taking a few precious seconds of his time, he cast a heal over it and ran to Jet and Virginia, being helped to their feet by Clive. "What should we do?!" He pressed, alarmed. 

"This… _thing_ was one of the main weapons that the humans used to battle the demon race thousands of years ago." Clive said, stretching Virginia's arm across his shoulders so she could properly stand. Part of her purple dress had been burnt, she must have been scorched somehow. "This is not just a recent copy or composition, like Asgard, but an actual specimen from all those eons past. Diablo… I studied it once… The lord of fire, the guardian of Hell…" He raised a hand to his mouth to seal off a cough, sensing the smoke in the air more than the others. "I do not know how, but Ravendor has found a way to control it. This is bad, that golem has the potential to destroy us all…"

The floor shook as the monster lumbered towards them, it's fists glowing red hot with a molten charge. Jet, the quickest of them all, had the right idea to shout out 'Scatter!', before heading for cover, ripping Virginia away from Clive and running to safety. Clive and Gallows both found safety by leaping over and ducking behind a moderately high rock formation, hearing an explosion tear away some of the other defenses that they could have used. Thankfully, the one they were under held, for now. They could only pray that Jet and Virginia were experiencing the same kind of luck.

"Clive, I dunno if you noticed, but-" Gallows was cut off as Clive slapped a hand over his mouth and made a 'Shut the hell up!', motion with his other. Then, he let go and the Baskar obediently went silent, albeit a little bit sulkily. The sniper gradually stood up high enough to see over their barrier, and became slightly confused when the golem was now just sitting there, seemingly inanimate. It wasn't moving anymore. He crouched back down and focussed his attention back onto Gallows, making a hand-movement that it was okay to speak aloud now. The priest snorted, but continued. "I dunno if you noticed, but can't you feel that the aura in that golem is changing? Look, feel with your mediums, it doesn't seem right…"

All the demon had to do was concentrate, he didn't need his mediums for it anymore. Clive closed his eyes and felt out with his mind, stumbling a little because this kind of thing was not his actual forte, and felt, very weakly, from the heart of Diablo's body, Ravendor's energy signature. Gallows was correct, it _wasn't_ right at all. He barely noticed when Jet and Virginia joined them behind the barrier of solid stone, crouching down around them. Jet had a bump on his head, he must've been hit pretty hard by something. Virginia looked more or less okay. Clive opened his eyes. "It's like… like his aura's changing shape, colour, opacity, charge…" He wiped his cheek, and some black blood came off, staining his hand. This gave him an idea, or a kick in the right train of thought.

__

…What has happened? …What have I missed? Why are my senses telling me that he is not human? He **must** be human, he has no reason not to be so. He was never involved in anything, not like me, why am I sensing, and why are the mediums telling me that there is a **second** demon in this area?

"I feel it too." Virginia said, checking the clips on her twin pistols. "It's just like back in Claiborne, with you, Clive. At first, the mediums weren't really sure, and we were too, but then it became obvious, what you are. It's the same thing." She sighed. "Okay, so there's two demons now. Clive _and_ Ravendor." She looked over to Clive, trying to read on his face if he had offended him in any way. He looked liked he was deeply thinking. Virginia continued to rationalize things, seeing that Clive was unable to do it himself. "We don't know what turned Clive into a demon, though we have a clear view about the lycan curse and what it did. If these are separate, then maybe the same thing has got this bandit leader in it's clutches as well."

"No!" Clive argued, a little more vehemently than he should have. "That is not true! He is not the same as I am!" He paused for a second to gather his thoughts, shakily adjusting his glasses. "It's different." He said, "Like me, and like Janus. Do you remember Janus Cascade?" Everybody nodded, and Virginia sniffed and looked away at the mention of the name. Clive nodded, this was a good basis for a comparison. "I- uh… well, I smelt Ravendor's blood a little while ago," He admitted, "And there was something wrong. He is not like me, it's different, like-"

For once, Gallows got the gist of what Clive was saying. His face brightened with realization, making conclusions of his own. "It's like Diablo is kinda like the eggshell, while the guy within is like the stuff inside the egg. Developing… growing… I get it!" He declared, grinning. "So, all we have to do is break open the armor and knock off that Ravendor bloke inside! That'll kill off both the golem _and_ the controller!" He became a little more sober in his wording. "…But that's gonna be the hard part, I guess."

He didn't get much of a chance to ponder over this, for at that very exact moment, Diablo grabbed a fistful of their barrier rock in one hand and tore it away, the sedimentary stone crumbling to a fine dust. With a path cleared to his enemies, the golem bellowed and belched out a burst of flame from his mouth, shaped into a perfect ball and hurtling straight towards them. Clive acted entirely on reflex. Gravity lightened around him and his clothing started to billow, a faint aura outlining his shape. The sniper raised one arm and summoned an oppressive force in the form of a widespread eliminate scanner, using invisible compression waves to push the fireball away. His mind ached under the pressure, but the attack eventually succeeded, sent hurtling back to Diablo's form. They hit the armor and made it glow with an intense red heat, illuminating the dark cavern even more.

Clive took some deep breaths to get the feeling back into his body, gravity slowly returning to normal. He shouldn't really do that too often, but at least he didn't faint, this time. The rest of the Maxwell Gang staggered to their feet, after being knocked aside by the lashback force of Clive's retaliation attack. The sniper shrugged off his sniper rifle that was hanging at his back by it's leather strap, checking carefully that the weapon was loaded. It was, with _silver_ bullets. This somehow made Clive smile. So Catherine had been prepared to do her duty to the very end. That _was_ the Aegis he remembered, down to the last detail. But this was not the time to be reminiscing. He had to fight. However, he still felt that tiny degree of _wrongness_ in the feel of his weapon. No, he could not let that bother him now!

Diablo loomed over him, pulsing in it's red hot power, pure, raw, primal energy. Clive made some speedy adjustments to his night-vision scope and snapped his clip back into place, not bothering to remove the silver ammunition. _How ironic,_ He thought, _That a former lycanthrope will so eagerly use a weapon built for their own destruction._ Clive blinked, discovering something amusing. _Just like the human race, I guess._ He held the weapon up, triggering his inborn lock-on talent, and expelled a soft breath, trying to make himself as still as possible. Clive absently wondered if Ravendor could see him though Diablo's vision, and if so, did this frighten him? Did Ravendor know of Clive's _true_ form? If a regular bullet could not pierce through the armor, then a _precision_ assault should at least do _some_ kind of damage. Smirking in mirth, and focussing his spirit, he pulled the trigger.

Click, click, click.

Click, click, click.

Nothing happened, just the hollow sound of his treasured weapon echoing a row of misfires. Clive lowered the gun and stared at it in horror, a hideous feeling crawling down his body like a legion of spiders. "...It's not working! Why?!" He exclaimed. Gungnir was ignoring his spirit, and had shut down the connection to make the weapon work. He had lost the synchronization with his only means of survival. Horror gripped his heart, and he suddenly understood the reason why. Gungnir was built to understand Clive Winslett's spirit, and no other. But, he was Clive Winslett no longer. He had changed, his spirit had changed. Clive would have just as much luck operating this machine as he would Virginia's pistols, or Jet's airget-lamh. He was worthless. He was a sniper no longer.

Then, what was he?

His arms shook as he dropped the weapon, looking up into the golem's face. What was it waiting for? Why had it not attacked him yet? What kind of game was Ravendor playing? How could he protect anyone now? Clive felt that if he were to try another magic or demonic attack like he had just used before, that the effort would probably destroy him. He wasn't ready for such a fight just yet, he was too weak, too insecure. He didn't even know what to do. Catherine, against all common sense, stood up from her hiding place and watched from out in the open, transfixed. The world seemed frozen, like a church painting depicting one of the seven hells, her weaponless husband looking up into the face of the Devil himself, while the slowly recovering bodies of his friends lay scattered all around him. What could, what _would_ happen next?

**__**

Wake up!

Clive paused in a mid-step forwards, his breath suddenly catching in his throat. Slowly, his hand moved up to clutch at the area precisely where his heart was, trying to gulp down the amount of air that he had lost. What was that he had felt? An irregular heartbeat? A pressure on his heart, he could feel it pressing down on the organ that was powering his body onwards. Shaking, the metal demon dropped to one knee and panted, wondering what the heck was going on. It felt like, it wasn't, this couldn't be a heart attack, could it? No, not now…

**__**

We have put this aside for too long, We can wait no longer… No Clive, this is not what you think it is… Just a wake-up call… It is time… Time for you to know the truth… Come back to the heart of your past… Come back to the events you have forgotten… Wake up…

"…Know that voice… voices…" He rasped, digging his nails into his shirt and chest. "…Know you both… Boomerang… and Luceid…" Sweat broke out all over his face, and he struggled to keep himself awake, feeling a pulling on his soul that was far too similar to when he was yanked out of Boomerang's body in his dream, except now, he was being removed from his own. Catherine turned just in time to watch Clive fall, the demon's cold blue eyes glazing over as he slowly fell, and at the very last second before they became vacant entirely, they switched for the duration of a heartbeat into a dark, shadowy red. He landed on his stomach and flopped forward like an inanimate doll, and ironically, he practically was. His soul had gone elsewhere.

"Clive!" She cried, running to him.

His soul had gone back, to understand the truth.


	66. Reincarnation

Reality shifted, to a place unknown.

Clive found himself standing in a deep puddle of shadow. It stretched out, beyond the furthest reaches of his vision, and instead of fading along the horizon's vanishing point, it spread out and also coated the sky, spreading through the air, like every atom within this dark black world was just another aspect of the shadow. It was hard to look at, because the land had no scope, nothing to vary itself with. It was simply everything, and nothing, all at once. Clive was immersed right in the middle of it. He pressed his heels into the floor underneath his boots and felt that the ground was solid and cold like one great big block of stone positioned underneath the darkness. 

The air was difficult to breathe, and as he turned around to see where he was, no change in his vision was made. He blinked a few times. It made no difference whether his eyes were open or not. He had never been in a place so dark before. This unnerved him more than it should have, it felt like he was existing solely in a dream. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out into the darkness for a voice, anything, as long as it didn't leave him alone. "Catherine!" He cried, "Kaitlyn! Virginia! Gallows! Jet! Ravendor…" The echoes of his voice answered him back seconds later, carrying with them no reply. He was alone. Clive lowered his hands. "Luceid…" He whispered, as an absolute final resort. 

Like a thin layer of water, the shadows rippled like liquid without volume around his feet and the ends of his coat, cold, and silky. Clive knelt and tried to cup a small portion of the shadow into his hands, a tiny pool collected within his half-clasped palms, a deep black sea, with thin wisps of dark smoke flitting around it. Like water, the darkness escaped his hands via a small crack between his fingers and drained away, the drifter feeling no dampness at all from the vapor fluid. It was like the darkness had no physical form at all. This was, this must be his dream world, so much like the places he had walked through before. Clive felt fear seep into his body from the notion, and he stood up and looked around, wishing for a light. "Please, tell me. What am I… supposed to do, Luceid…?"

"What right have you to speak that name, when you choose to live in such ignorance of your own true identity?" Said a gruff voice as somebody grabbed Clive by the shoulder and spun him forcefully around, strong fingers digging into his coat and the area that had previously been a severe bite wound. His shoulder flared in pain momentarily, but it disappeared as the demon looked up, clenching his fists in surprise. He made eye contact with his assailant and Clive tore himself away, stepping backwards and tripping, landing in the shadow and sending up a cloud of the pitch black vapor.

It seeped into his clothing and made him feel awful, except that he was too consumed with surprise to notice this. "It is you!" Clive cried, struggling to his feet but staying on his guard. "I know you! You are the one inside my head, telling me what to do! You are the one who has been torturing me!" The drifter coughed on a little bit of the smoke that he had inhaled, and took another step back, making sure not to fall down this time. 

"Boomerang Flash, at your service." He said with an alarming amount of courtesy, nodding his head in greeting. "It is about time I got a chance to speak with you, face to face." Smiling in ambiguous intent, he raised one hand and said something quietly, hushed and arcane. Around them, the darkened sky erupted with faint pinpoints of light, masses and masses of stars illuminating the dream world, into thousands of separate and beautiful constellations. Lowering his hand, he gripped the sword he had been leaning on, making a slight noise from the motion because he was decked out in full battle armor. Clive knew from previous experience in one of his other dreams about how heavy it was. It took a demon's strength to walk around in armor like that. "You have questions, don't you? Go ahead, ask me while you still have time. That is what I'm here for."

Clive thought awhile to measure Boomerang as a potential danger to himself, but concluded that if the knight had wanted to injure him, he would have certainly done it while his back was turned. The drifter knew that he may as well trust the older demon, for now, at least. In any case, he had better start his questions out small, to see exactly how much Boomerang knew. "Where are we?" Clive asked. "I know I have been here before, in some kind of a dream. There, I heard voices and saw things that did not make sense…" He focussed on Boomerang's weapon. "And that blade was there as well…"

"This is the dream world of humans." Replied the other demon idly, like it was information that anybody should know. "It is also your subconscious. This is where your soul wanders, when your body is asleep. In here, it is very, _very_ easy to forget anything, sometimes everything. Do you ever get that feeling right after you wake up when you are between asleep and awake, in both worlds? That is your conscious recollection of the world of dreams. I don't really belong here, I'm no dream-demon, my body is that of metal." He rapped on his chest plate for emphasis. "And my sword, I'm not surprised that you remember her… I'll explain about her later, alright?"

"Why are you here?" Clive said tiredly. "How can I go back? I have to go back. They need me there." He had a thought, and blurted out the next question. "And why am I a demon? You are one yourself, you must know! Tell me now! Why are you in my head, Boomerang? Why is all this happening to me?" This was a large volley of questions that Clive had shot out at Boomerang, but the drifter wasn't in a good mood for a question and answer session, and knew that he had to get out of here fast. His body was vulnerable in the real world without a soul to control it. He wondered exactly if it was safe.

"All those questions are tied together, and I can answer them, all at once. I need to explain to you now, the truth. You deserve to know. But Clive, what I am about to tell you will be very hard to accept, you might disbelieve me, or you might take it even worse. Let me ask you; can you handle the truth?" The look Clive gave Boomerang seemed to be an answer enough, and probably would have been punctuated with cuss words had it been spoken aloud. "I see." Continued the knight, "Right then. Listen well. First, let me use something as a simile, or a metaphor. Something…"

The metal demon turned around slowly, taking with him the thick ancient sword and tapping it on the ground, resting both his hands upon the golden tip of the handle. Clive felt unconditionally restless as he watch the figure in front of him deeply exhale, searching for words to say. "Your Professor's Filgaia Theory." The Quarter Knight said out of the blue, "How the world is a single life entity. Do not say anything now, Clive. Just listen." The drifter immediately shut his mouth, just about to say something then and there. Clive absently wondered how Boomerang knew that he was going to speak, but instead, continued to listen. "I assume that you understand the basic elements of this hypothesis, the lithosphere, earth and fire, the atmosphere, wind, the hydrosphere, water, and the biosphere, life itself, all combine to create a living habitat that can sustain organic existence."

"Yes," Clive interrupted, "It is a harmony that assures continued survival of the life on Filgaia." He shook his head. "But what does any of this have to do with me? Is there any special significance that I am not properly grasping?" Thinking for a second, he added; "And how did you come to know such things? How do you understand the works of Berlitz and I?" Boomerang turned his head, just enough so that Clive could see the glint of one crimson red eye in the darkness. The older metal demon smiled, exposing his sharp little fangs. Suddenly, Clive wished that Boomerang could have chosen to wear his battle helmet, looking into those frightfully knowledgeable eyes was disturbing him. It felt as though he was being whittled away into nothing.

"I usually wouldn't have cared," Boomerang admitted freely and gruffly, "Except that you _made me_ care, Clive Winslett. Don't look so shocked and shut up, I am not done explaining yet." He tapped the sword upon the invisible ground again, and instead of just ambient noise, a fragment of the inky pool disappeared, revealing a small patch of dirt not unlike the once Clive had just been standing on back in the _real_ world, from only a few minutes ago. The drifter crouched and touched the patch of dirt uncertainly, but felt it's mass and volume, a proper existence. But, this just could not be real. Was this a replication made in his own dream word? Boomerang faced Clive and drew a perfectly round circle in the dirt with the tip of his blade, nearly taking up the entire space of area. When this was done, he buried the end of his sword in the precise center, and spoke again.

"If the planet is like a living body, and it's physical aspects are similar to skin, bone and organ tissue, then let me ask you, what is the nature and purpose of a conscious soul? Why would such lengths be taken to engineer a being who can think for themselves, who can _remember_ and _learn_?" Clive shifted to a full attention and blocked out the annoying inner voices in his mind, what the older metal demon was saying was far too interesting to just skim through. Maybe this might hold his answer? Boomerang scratched a line in the circle, bisecting the shape in half, but at an odd diagonal angle. "Filgaia, like any other living planet, has a bloodstream." He waited for this sentence to sink into Clive's mind, and pressed onwards. "Blood, flowing across the surface, merging, interacting with others, and creating more of the same. Does this description remind you of something else?" 

"It does. Moving and interacting, making more and working towards a goal. People…" Clive breathed, catching on. "You are talking about people. So, you tell me that the Filgaia Theory can also apply to life itself, and that seemingly futile life on an evolutionary scale can still hold a higher purpose? Amazing." He freely admitted with a long exhalation of breath, he had never thought of it that way before. Boomerang's ideas were truly fascinating. In fact, Clive knew that he just had to know more. His scientist's curiosity was getting the better on him. Could this be the absolute truth?

"The Prophets did not see things in this way. They only saw the little picture populated with humans and demi-humans. Not once, did they consider the entirety of Filgaia as a singular whole. Their ideals were doomed from the start, evolving every person individually would have never worked. Like cancerous blood, the rest of the human species and the planet herself would have purged them from her body." Boomerang jerked a thumb at himself, and then at Clive. He smiled ironically, drumming the fingers of his free hand upon the leather grip of his sword. "I will tell you this. You and I are also a part of this cancerous blood. I, upon my own home planet, accepted my fate readily, however, you did not receive any choice. The fault, I'm afraid, is all mine. But I will explain this later. For now, I will continue. Here is a simple question. What does blood do in a living body?"

Clive had studied biology before, he had a fair idea of the answer that Boomerang was searching for. Instinctively, he looked at one of his wrists for the scars they bore, and still, they had not faded away. Unlike the blood that he had so readily tried to purge from his body, those scars probably wouldn't go away. He sighed. "Blood transports iron extracts and other minerals in the body to different areas for sustenance and continued existence." Clive said carefully, "It also regulates the flow of chemicals in the body. Blood and people… Blood and life…" He raised a hand to his chin and mused over Boomerang's metaphor, trying to discern the trigger. "They are one and the same. A transport, a method of regulating life throughout the planet! Just like a circulatory system!" His eyes clouded over with confusion. "But then, what is it that a life must carry that is so precious to Filgaia itself? Not life, as life was built for that purpose, so what else? I don't understand…"

"Memory." Boomerang said so simply to that it almost embarrassed Clive. "Experience. Emotion. Thought. Creativity. Desire. Courage. Hope. Despair. But above all, memory. Filgaia wants, and has, a soul. This is brought about by collective thought from the life-force trailing across her surface, discovering and imparting knowledge, teaching, and living. The memory that a human collects in their lives also forms similar recollections in the minds of their close friends and associates, and that is how memory is transported, just like chemicals and blood. This is the hidden part of your Filgaia Theory. This is the wisdom that you have never known. The memories that have grown and spread, at the point of a physical termination of the body, are released into the ether, and sustain the planet, her aura, her soul. Filgaia's memory is her soul."

The drifter wished fervently that he had brought his notebook along, this was just so fascinating! Clive was dumbstruck. Suddenly, it all made sense. Eerie, yet wonderful sense. His hand twitched as though there should be a pen or a pencil within it, and he desperately tried to record this information into his long-term memory. If her were to survive all of this, he'd have to write a paper about Boomerang's words, no doubt about it. The Quarter Knight continued, cutting even more lines into the circle, representing the bloodstream that flowed through the planet. "Like blood, a spent life does not terminate utterly, something else survives past that phase of death, and is recycled, rebuilt, to continue onwards in another form or guise. You can call it reincarnation, if you will. Now, from the memories lost in their previous life, the small soul upon the planet is now anew, after a process of revitalization, and must build new memories over the ones that have been taken. However, there is always a small mark upon a used soul, a shadow, like an imprint of the former lives you have led. They can resurface in dreams, over traumatic experiences, and in other ways. You, Clive, your current self is a definite result of this process. "

"Boomerang…" Clive whispered, horrified. "Are you telling me that my dreams are-"

"Previous reality." The knight finished up for him. "Memories from nearly two thousand years past. You have a very old soul, Clive Winslett." He smirked in an almost evil manner, like he was going to enjoy saying what was on his mind next. "This is the way that the world transpires, you and your professor were nearly on the mark. Nearly. Now, my friend, let me tell you about the current life _I_ have been living as a result of this renewing process. You may find this interesting." He placed a hand on his armor-plated chest. "In fact, it will explain the reason _why_ I speak this way, and why I know so much. I hate science, but I learnt it because of _you_. You are the reason for my presence here, and unlike what you choose to think, I am _not_ possessing you. Nothing of the sort. I have been here all along, hidden, within the recesses of your mind, from the very beginning."

Clive sunk to his feet, clutching his hands to his head. "No, stop. Shut up. You're lying! You must be!"

His words reached a crescendo as he spoke them, loudly, clearly, so that Clive could hear every single syllable and be forced to comprehend. Boomerang closed his eyes and began. "I was sent to Hell." He chuckled, and it sounded horrible coming from the metal demon's lips. "The fires burnt me and made me suffer, I endured the agony for countless years, writhing, screaming, having every single layer of my soul stripped away and destroyed. But I never forgot the first moment of my entrapment into the burning region, what that serpentine devil said to me as it dragged me into the pit. _'Atonement through the suffering of one's own sin, to be empathetic, to experience that which you have inflicted upon others, an irony which will be a salvation.'_ I never forgot. And finally, after two millennia of contemplation and refinement of my sword art, I recalled Luceid and my promise to her, and knew that I must atone." He spread his hands, leaving his blade to be stuck neatly into the ground. "This is my atonement."

__

He wants to atone… Clive thought amidst the jumble of revelations and confusion running around within his mind. His head was hurting through all the sudden information, and it scared him to know that _this_ was the truth that he had been searching for. _Atonement through suffering? Whose? …Mine? My suffering? He wants Luceid back, so why is he stuck onto me? Why is his past my previous reality…? Oh gods… gods no…_

The Quarter Knight nodded, and knelt down to Clive's level, where the newly-made metal demon was nearly shivering in fright. It looked like he was finally getting the picture. Boomerang smiled. "I wished to find out what it was that makes a human function. Why a human desires to protect." In the dirt circle in front of him, he drew a small humanoid shape resembling a man with a darkly skinned finger, absently illustrating his case. "With this desire, I was at last reborn. Listen to me, Clive. Listen to this. I was born into a human's body, of a male persuasion, about thirty years ago on the planet of Filgaia…"

"Shut up…" Clive moaned, "Just shut up…"

The elder metal demon did nothing of the sort. "I was homeless, destitute, from the first day I was born. As an orphan, I managed to survive through pity and cunning in the township of Little Twister, and at the early age of about four or five, I began to gather other children around me, for protection, and for companionship. This became the beginning of my first gang. I tried to be a good kid, morally, at least, so when I picked up another child just outside the town with a strange accent and an unusual weapon, I let him join as a permanent member of the gang. He did well, until the accident many years after, when he tried to take his own life. I took that bullet for myself, and I bear a scar upon my arm in doing so. I became a drifter and an archaeologist, while I also married one of my oldest childhood friends and had a daughter with her. Tell me, Clive. Who am I?" 

"No…" Rasped the drifter, shaking his head. "This cannot be true! I am not you! I'm not!" He looked up into Boomerang's cold and apathetic eyes, gritting his teeth as he suddenly felt an intense loathing for the other demon, fiercer and more powerful than he ever could have imagined. The stars swirled around them, in thousands of little constellations, but they were easily ignored. "We are nothing like each other! How can you be me?! I hate killing! I hate battle! I am Clive Winslett, not Boomerang Flash! I am- I mean, I _was_ human!" He dropped his hands to his sides and they sunk into the inky pool of darkness slightly, where the shadows rolled over them without relent. "You're wrong…" He whispered, losing his anger to an overwhelmed weariness.

"It is true that we have practically nothing in common…" Boomerang reasoned with a hint of revulsion and pity in his voice. "But that means nothing. I had a choice when I was reborn. I had to atone myself through becoming my very own antithesis, my opposite. For the moment, I had to quench my desire to fight and become docile, kinder, less haughty. My desire spread to a different area of expertise, the desire for the knowledge of the past. This is why I became an archaeologist. As time passed I became a different person, and the memories of the thousands of battles, the hunting of the Executioner, were lost. I was Boomerang no longer. I was human, I was Clive Winslett. This is what I needed to tell you, the truth of your past."

"You speak to me in dreams, you show me my past memories…" Said the drifter softly, calming down a little. "But for what purpose? Why? Am I not wiped of these memories for a reason? Why do you uncover them yet again? And," He added, "If I am you, how can you speak to me as Boomerang singularly?" His head spinning, Clive tried his best to make out the wisdom imparted upon him, separating what he believed to be fact and fiction. The concept of reincarnation was not foreign to him, in fact, it was a theory often used in certain Guardian-based religions, but to meet one's own former self from the past, and to have such a reaction, it was just too much. "Wait, may I get this straight?" Clive asked, "Was I you in a previous life?"

"Yes." Said Boomerang solemnly, "You are the reincarnation of my soul." He pulled his weapon from out of the ground with an effortless movement, and held the end of the blade with his other free hand. Turning the sword this way and that, it caught the reflections of the stars in it's body and glittered like an unearthly light. "How else could you have wielded a blade forged only for me, out of my connection with Luceid. Only two people can wield this blade. You and me. And," He persevered, "I speak to you like this because your mind purges my existence here. You still cannot remember all of the past, and even so, you would not have understood it. To make up for that, your subconscious allowed me to be recreated in your mind as a split personality, to guide you until you were ready to accept the truth. Are you ready now, Clive?"

"I… I became a demon not because of the curse, but because I was one in a former life? Because I am remembering my past?" A force flashed through his mind, a wave of memories, and Clive winced, trying to take them all in. They spoke of his true self, of his thousands of years living as a part of the demon race. He knew then and there, that although he had been a human for almost thirty years, he had survived as a demon for far longer. His soul was a demon's soul, and nothing could change that. It made him feel sick. "When Luceid bit me, some of those memories decided to come back… and it triggered the return into a demon body. I understand now. I see."

"That was not the beginning." Boomerang inputted. "Even before that, you were attempting to remember. When you came back from visiting Ka Dingel and the dark spear was released into the world, did you not begin to dream of your recent past? Of the incident with Berlitz? That tower, the place of your previous death, woke up part of your mind, and set it back into a recall, but that was not enough. The night after you saw the blue menace, Siegfried, or should I say _Zeikfried,_ didn't you spend half the night thinking back to the moment when your professor died? These things were keys into your past, and though you did not understand them, you tried to remember. Seeing Luceid on that Halloween night and letting her taste your blood was the final straw, the last barrier, and you could not hide from the truth."

Clive sat back, exhausted, but also making sense of Boomerang's words. "I am me." He said carefully, reaching deeply into his mind. "That is all I need to know. I was Boomerang, but now I am me." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I need to think of this some more, but now is not the time. I have to save my family, I have to save my friends." Glancing up, he saw Boomerang finally in an entirely different light, and he couldn't hate the demon so much, not anymore. Even a demon such as himself had tried to mature throughout the ages. "Listen, Boomerang. If you are me, then you know what I must do. I have to go back and save them. I have to save Catherine and Kaitlyn!"

He felt a point suddenly touching the middle of his throat, sharp and deadly honed. Clive froze, and followed the length of the blade all the way up to the demon that was holding the sword. Boomerang smiled grimly. "We have but one soul." He said. "But there is you, the present, and there is me, the past. We cannot, truthfully, coexist together for much longer. It is straining our mind even as we speak. One of us must die. This imbalance is keeping us rooted in our dream world, we must stop it. Clive, you know that I will always fight for my life, against anybody, even my future self." He looked serious, focused. Boomerang wasn't bluffing. 

The drifter swallowed hard, knowing that he had no weapon to retaliate with. Also, how could he kill somebody who shared the same soul as himself? Wouldn't that be suicide? This was too confusing. Then, before Clive could come to a conclusion, Boomerang raised his free hand and closed his eyes, concentrating. A new shape appeared in the vastness of space swirling around them, solidifying into a perfect replica of the Dark Guardian Blade. It was remarkably accurate, it looked _exactly_ the same. Boomerang dropped the weapon at Clive's feet. The Quarter Knight narrowed his eyes. "Show me your sword art, Clive Winslett! Show me what thirty years living as a human has taught you! Show me the passion of your desire, the power to protect! If not for yourself, then for your family!"

Picking up the weapon by it's leather-bound hilt, it came as a surprise to find that the weapon was so heavy to lift, though it was still unmatched in it's cold blue beauty, frosting in the shadows, yet gleaming from the reflective starlight. When he touched the blade, Clive could feel the spirit of the sword climb up through the metal and touch the aura existing in his arms, tentatively, like it was trying to remember an old friend. A moment passed, and he got the sensation of those tendrils of spirit tightening around his own, holding them both together, melding them as one. It was indescribable. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and hauled the weapon up into attack position one, struggling with the heavy weight. "You want me to-"

"Fight." Replied Boomerang, mimicking Clive's posture. "Fight for your family's future."


	67. The Value Of Salvation Is

Diablo stood still. Inside, within the thick shell of ancient metal and still functioning components, in the throne of the giant golem's soul, Ravendor's status in the overtaking of Diablo's body had gone one step further from simple manipulation, to a condition of semi-assimilation. He had been released from the restraints in the control chair and was now suspended above it, tied into place by a plethora of wires and cables. His arms were spread out, electrical wiring rooted into his wrists and wrapping around his arms, the underside of his armor-plated forearm weak enough to be pierced through. 

They embedded into the main points of his body, his neck, his chest, and fed off the intense electrical energy stored within, powering the golem's weakened life support system. There was a small scattering of black feathers beneath Ravendor and over the control chair, indicating that the metamorphosis was in it's advanced stage of completion. Around him, his voice was synthesized and merged with the internal computer's voice, reading out a constant string of processed data. It had a lifeless tone, and came from the speakers around the small control chamber instead of from his mouth itself.

****

Hold position #1A. Hold position #1AB. Maintain current stature. External shell barrier at 78. Adequate. Psychogram serviceable to the eight layer. Power output optimal. All systems are fully functional.

Diablo's scanner froze in it's place as it picked up an unusual fluctuation, or better put, a general lack of one. It had registered each aura present within the destroyed ruin through Ravendor's previous memory and perception, registering the info into it's databank. Now, it was experiencing a serious error. One of the auras in it's memory had suddenly gone missing. It had only been there a second ago, and like a lantern going out, it had disappeared. In reaction to this problem, Diablo cut down it's nervous restraints to the energy source via an order sent from the highest area of command. The grip on the machine loosened, and Ravendor slowly opened his eyes.

He was not surprised to find out what position he was in. This restrained his movements almost totally, because a complete disconnection from the system would kill whatever power was left inside the golem. Ravendor didn't mind, he had no wish to move right now anyway. However, a personal view in his original body might help him figure out the error much faster. He could not talk. His body had control over both sight and hearing, but the rest of him was too wired into Diablo to keep the rest of his human senses working. Instead, he made use of the vocal synthesizer, and substituted that for his new method of speech. **"…I can… I can sense that somebody has gone missing…"** He said weakly, his voice growing stronger as he used it more. **"It feels wrong. Bring up visual aid now, I must see the outside of this confinement…"**

The screen built into the wall in from of him flickered into life, showing a clear image of what the rest of the ruin looked like from Diablo's lofty perspective. Ravendor had stopped fighting for a reason, the attacks that the other drifters were dishing out at him were having absolutely no effect whatsoever. This was no challenge to him. Besides, Diablo was only acting as a shield for him temporarily. He would personally destroy them all when he had the chance. But that was not now. He had to wait. He saw Jet, Virginia and the Baskar priest still attempting to crack open the golem with little success, arcana and feeble bullets assaulting the armor and bouncing off harmlessly. They were still there.

And then he saw Catherine.

She and Kaitlyn were huddled in a corner of the dark ruin, protected by a solid formation of rock, but still visible to him, because of Diablo's great height. Clive was with them, but he appeared to be asleep. The woman was hugging him and crying, while Ravendor silently ordered the computer to isolate Clive's energy signature and check to see if it was still present. Clive had a heartbeat, and a pulse, but his aura was not there. It was as if Catherine was clinging onto a still-alive corpse. Ravendor was confused, but began to feel the exhaustion brought about from staying in his original body so late in his metamorphosis. He had to vacate, or risk death.

But something clung to his mind as he closed his eyes, and left his fleshy weakened shell. Catherine had been crying. In all his many years of life, of knowing her, Ravendor had never seen Catherine cry, not once. She had never cried for _him_, at least. And yet, she would do so for Clive. If it were capable, Ravendor would have laughed. It looked like he really _was_ alone. That was okay though, because if so, he would bear no remorse when he'd destroy them all.

He was, after all, a killing machine.

xxx

Clive got the sensation that as he stared into the frosty metal of the ancient Dark Guardian Blade, he was looking into a window of the past. It was creeping back into his mind, taking tiny little steps at a time, and as this happened, it felt like he was losing whatever little bits of identity he had left. It was hard to believe that he was Clive Winslett anymore. But of course, that was not his real name. It was hard to determine precisely _what_ he was supposed to believe anymore. No, he had to take this one step at a time, he could worry about himself later. Right now, he had to get back into the real world. Clive let the flat of his sword rest carefully in his other hand, looking deeply into the carved design of the fallen tower upon the blade. He knew it's significance now, it was symbolic with his fall, and now he would see to his next rebirth. This sword truly _did_ belong to him, didn't it?

At a very slow pace, Clive bent his elbows and brought the cool metal to rest up against his cheek, seeking out the faint life-force within it. Luceid was a part of this sword, a crystallisation of a Guardian's soul. That made the blade almost like a medium in itself, and as Clive closed his eyes, he felt Luceid react to his presence. It made Clive smile, she _recognised_ him. The blade almost grew warm to the touch, and it practically glowed in the darkness. "Luceid…" The demon whispered. "It has been _so_ long… I remember now. I can finally see…" He sunk to his knees, ignoring all that was around him. The only thing he focussed on was the sword. Laying it across his knees, it shined like a jewel in the dark. "I… I do not know what to say. What am I supposed to say?"

Boomerang was waiting for him with infinite patience, still in a ready position to fight. Clive looked up at his former self, as if asking for answers silently. The knight had already told him everything, but Clive wanted to know that little bit more. The elder metal demon shook his head. "Say nothing now. Save it for later. You do want out of this place, don't you? The ticket to your passage lies in the spilling of my blood." He smiled wickedly, letting go of the sword with one hand and extending it towards where the sky should have been, if their world had not been simply composed of a dream. "Let us go back to the beginning of our despair!" He cried, crimson eyes blazing.

The world changed. Current reality shifted around them into a semblance of blurred shapes, without colour, without solid form. Eventually, they took on both qualities and grew like spindling plants into a new scene, the ceiling expanding into a clear blue sky, with a bright golden sun. Warm, and inviting. The wispy darkness at their feet was blown away by an invisible wind and aged cobblestones appeared underneath it, though they had not been there a second ago. Other additions appeared soon after, a distant crying of gulls not to far away, and the air became fresh and cool, bearing a biting scent of sea salt. Clive stood up, and looked around, baffled. Behind him, rose an apparition that neither he, nor his previous incarnation could ever forget. Ka Dingel, the tower of broken souls. It looked just as he remembered it, right down to the last detail. Clive stepped away, holding his sword up at the ready. Boomerang gradually lowered his hand, the altering magic now cast. "Wh-wha-" The drifter stammered, looking around with confusion.

"It is only suitable," His opponent explained while taking a step forward, standing upon the bridge which led into the entrance of the tower, "That we duel here. This is the place where our soul will be tested, once and for all." He held his blade up to the sky, and swept it in a slow circular arc, warming up for the fight. Clive watched him with uncertainty, still filled with a thousand questions that he wanted proper answers too. He just guessed that it was part of his scientist's nature to unceasingly ask questions, but it was also part of his demon's soul, which also allowed him to stand tall and calm, though he did not feel it on the inside. Did Boomerang know how he truly felt? It seemed possible, from what he had been told, but at the very least, it should have been a two way street. Clive should have been able to pick up Boomerang's thoughts. Why couldn't he sense what the other demon was sensing?

And then he understood. What had he been feeling all this time? Of course he could sense Boomerang's thoughts, his feelings, and his emotions. They were the source of his dream, and they had powered him onwards when all he had wanted to do was lay down and die. They were so interconnected, that to Clive right now, on a subconscious level, it was hard to discern exactly when the semblance of himself ended, and Boomerang's mind began. In truth, it was only the passage of time and it's influence that made them separate people. It was such a fragile barrier, one that could be torn at any given moment. "Boomerang, if you win this fight, what will happen to the both of us?" He asked, desiring an answer.

The elder metal demon looked back at Clive evenly, with an almost disinterested air. "That is simple." He said. "If I destroy you, then the singular entity that we are both composed of will shed the memories of the defeated one. If I win, we will lose the memories of our previous thirty years, and I will return to your current body as precisely who I am, Boomerang Flash. You will never have been created. Clive, you will just be a shadow of a forgotten dream."

__

To be forgotten, an ultimate death… He thought glumly, his hands tightening around the grip of his weapon. _…Because, if nobody knows that I exist, or if I forget that I exist, if what who I am were to become somebody else… That is as good as death for me… If he wins, I die, and so too will my family. Then, I guess, I cannot allow myself to die…_

"I see." Clive sighed, stretching to release the tension from his still tired and weakened body. It wasn't as bad as it was before, but that was only because he now existed within this dream world. He didn't have a real body at all, just an image that his mind had created, shaped into what he believed he looked like. It could be said, though in controversy, that he was now the product of his own imagination and fancy. This world was made for only him. He, and Boomerang. Only they had control over it. Clive asked his second question. "Pertaining to your answer, I will invert it and ask; what will happen to me if _I_ win?"

"I will die." Replied Boomerang dully and bluntly. "We will lose my thousands of years of memories, and you will become like who you were a week ago, ignorant of your own true nature. You will wake up and become human again. It will seem as though nothing had ever happened. You will be free to save your family without my interruption." The knight smirked amusedly. "Is this worth fighting for, Clive? The chance to make it all better? The chance to erase everything you dislike about yourself? It is tempting, is it not? I can sense that you want it, but to gain it, you will have to kill for it. Can you kill for it, Clive Winslett?"

The newly-made demon just smiled, lowering his weapon. A seagull landed nearby on the bridge and fished around the cobblestones for a candidate for lunch, found none, and made his disappointment known verbally, cawing a little and flying away. This world looked so _real_, had Clive not known it's real nature, he would have easily mistaken it for the real one in a heartbeat. He came to a conclusion. If Boomerang could manipulate the area around them so easily, then so could he. He wanted this to change, this was _not_ the place where he wished to fight.

Clive closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. In reaction, the blue sky changed colour, shifting, distorting into a mockery of it's previous form, like fresh paint oozing and mixing into ghoulish shapes, making the sky look like it was melting. It became a dark bluish-purple, and the cobblestones stretched out in some places, and contracted in other spots, while above them, the great tower of Ka Dingel collapsed under a ghostly force, breaking without an explosion, the rocks and pieces of debris falling around them like a rain that could not be felt. The sun faded away, under a non-existent horizon, and the stars erupted into a magical haze across the sky, heavenly and beautiful. The green-haired drifter opened his eyes, and then it was finished. The scene looked like an abstract, yet magnificent piece of artwork, yet still, Ka Dingel was the main focus. Clive looked pleased. "This is better," He announced, "Now we are able to fight under the cover of darkness."

"Indeed, indeed." Boomerang agreed, nodding. "But let me just say how amused I am that you would model this place upon our home world. This is what Terra looked like, so long ago." Clive was looking at him as if to say that this was not groundbreaking news, and at exactly the same time, the two demons shifted into attack positions, raising their weapons. The only thing left was for somebody to take the initiative and attack first. Tension was strung through the air, taut with intense electricity. Boomerang grinned, flashing his fangs. Clive mimicked him, trying to ignore the weight of the sword upon his arms. It was so very _heavy_, but Boomerang didn't seem to be having any trouble with it at all. He felt the weight of the metal, and shifted it around slightly with his hand. It was heavy, because it knew that it's _true_ master was nearby. He knew that things didn't really appear to be in his favor.

But still, he _had_ to win. As long as he got out of this one fight, everything else would seem like a bad dream. Clive could only hope that he remembered enough about swordplay to fight, and pray that his current self was more powerful than his present self. This fight would be for _all_ the marbles. The prize was his old life back, the penalty was ignorance of himself. Did he really even _need_ to understand? Clive had to trust his body to work for him, to make the decisions while his mind was off in contemplation. That was what it was made for, anyway. And Boomerang, he could sense Clive's thoughts, and so indeed could he. It was an even match. Two halves of his mind were about to duel, and one side would die…

If the present were to win, then the past would die. If the past won, he would have no present, no future.

Clive roared out a battle cry that didn't seem to be as powerful as he had hoped, and charged into the battle, swinging the heavy sword as precisely as he could. Boomerang twisted his weapon and used it as a shield, allowing Clive to strike it as hard as he could. The two wickedly forged blades grated into a spattering of sparks as their lengths clashed against each other, the strengths of their owners struggling to keep the weapon lock in their favour.

The domineering battle for Clive's mind had begun, and no matter what, despite who won, they would lose everything.


	68. The Beast That Shouted I At The Heart Of...

Virginia knelt with Catherine as they inspected Clive's comatose body. Jet and Gallows stood a short way away. Kaitlyn was holding onto her father's hand, and blatantly refused to let go. The golem had been silent for quite some time, and though they wanted to break it open and dispatch the fiend within, they were no longer under any serious threat and wanted to attend to their friend first. Jet had volunteered to keep a close eye upon the golem, should it choose to reactivate, so he stood with his back to the others, his ARM permanently trained on the crimson monstrosity. If the golem were to move an inch, Jet would cover it with a volley of hot lead bullets.

Gallows, being the team medic, approached a put a hand over Clive's brow, checking for a fever. He got the exact opposite, it was like touching the cold body of a corpse. If Clive hadn't been breathing, Gallows could have easily mistaken him for stone dead. "Geez," The priest whispered, "I ain't never seen anything like this before. Uh, what's his reaction time? Does he have a reaction? Should I check for a reaction?"

"His fingers move sometimes…" Catherine inputted softly. "It is almost like he is trying to grasp something that is not there. His tail twitches a bit too. He is still alive, but, he just won't wake up…" She leant over and brushed some of Clive's hair out of his face, but the drifter continued to bear the calm and unknowing expression of somebody immersed in an incredibly deep sleep. Catherine still couldn't forget the last expression Clive had had on his face before he had blacked out, one of sheer surprise, and almost fear. He had looked afraid.

"Tail?" Virginia asked aloud, confused. Then, she looked Clive over and understood. "Oh, I see." She said sullenly. "So, I guess that what Shane said was right. We can't fix this part, we were too late…" The drifter sighed, and rubbed the side of her temple tiredly. "I want to get out of here. We've come so far, and now it's come to this." Gently, she prodded Clive in the chest. He made no reaction. Virginia sighed. "Clive, please wake up…"

Growling, Gallows spun around to face the golem and had to bite back a word that he just couldn't say in Kaitlyn's presence. Instead, he shook his fist at the crimson giant, upset. "Why the hell is it just _sitting_ there?!" He demanded to know. "Why did it stop fighting?! Was it because Clive conked out? Damn it! Can't I just summon Schturdark on it's ass and flatten it to Kingdom Come?!" Jet turned suddenly and grabbed Gallows by the arm, his lavender eyes fraught with his own brand of apathetic anger.

"No!" Both Jet and Catherine shouted at the same time, the short word echoing off the wide expanse of the room. Jet held Gallows in his spot while Catherine quickly stood and looked up at him, full of concern. Both the youth and the ex-drifter seemed to have the same thought on their minds. Catherine shivered. "Gallows, this place has collapsed before. It is so very unstable here, even one little tremor could destroy this entire room. Please trust me, I was nearly killed here before. It is bad enough that we have an ancient golem to deal with, lumbering around and trying to destroy us." Catherine looked towards Diablo with mixed feelings. "All I know is that Ravendor understands this too. That is why he has refrained from using the golem's full power. He would not want to kill us in that way."

Jet cut in. "You know, she's right. 'Sides, if a Guardian was to burst in through the wall, or make a tidal wave, or break through the floor, or start a tornado in here, then we're all dead meat." He patted one of his pockets, where he kept all his mediums. "We'll just have to use our brains to beat this thing, not that you'd know anything about that, Gallows." He almost smiled after saying that remark, but caught himself in time. Gallows huffed, and sat down heavily, knowing when he was beaten.

__

Hisssssssssss…

Virginia tried to visualize what it would have been like if she had decided to summon her own medium, Grudiev, into their last skirmish. She shuddered, the tremors would have destroyed them all. Kaitlyn was sitting quietly beside her, and though she had finally stopped crying only a little while ago, her face was still wet with tears. Of all of them, besides Clive, this must have been the hardest on her. Thank the gods that she was still alive. The entire Maxwell Gang was now ringed around Clive's body, sitting down, taking a breather. Kaitlyn tugged on the sleeve of Virginia's dress. "I heard a snake." She said hesitantly. Jet overheard her, and bluntly told the girl, that from his own knowledge, no kinds of snakes lived in the Dune Canyon. Kaitlyn blinked. "…But I heard a hiss." She protested.

Jet looked put-off. "Well, the only other things that I know of that make a hissing noise are cats, Gallows's granny, and steam…" Information clicked into place inside the android's mind. Steam? What produced steam? Far too late, he noticed the huge back shadow looming over the entire team, as they had been set into a false sense of security from the lack of sound. Golems made sound when they moved, but…

Diablo was wreathed in a haze of shadow, thick and suffocating, they acted as a silencer across the giant machine's grating movements, magic and technology joined as one. Periodically, steam hissed out in a tiny expulsion of noise, but it was so quiet, an almost toneless sound. The Maxwell Gang had been ambushed, and Jet, being the first to notice, acted first. The sounds of his gatling attack rung throughout the air, and the boy swore as Diablo reached out for him, but he didn't move, because this gave the others enough time to escape. Virginia was the last to run, and only because Gallows was dragging her with him, also supporting Clive between Catherine at the same time.

The thick metal fingers tightened around Jet's body, crushing his ribs and his internal organs while pain shot down every nerve in his body and screamed for release. He was lifted off his feet like a child would pick up a small raggedy doll, and without the full use of both his arms, the silver-haired android could not struggle free. He wriggled, but the motion only made him lose his grip on his airget-lamh and it fell a considerable distance to the floor, rattling as it made it's impact. Virginia glanced up and her face shifted into a look of utter panic, and she had to be restrained by Gallows who was standing nearby. "Jet!" She cried, trying to rip her arm away from Gallows's grip so she could save him, "Are you okay?! Jet?!"

"Does it fucking look like I'm okay?!" He growled through clenched teeth, his body rigid with the agony of being squeezed to death. The boy groaned as he felt two of his ribs snap under the pressure, and his dark shirt became wet with escaping blood. He felt like a sponge being wrung dry, and as he focussed his blurry vision upon the crimson golem destroying him, he became aware that the hologram they had met only a little while ago had returned. He was smiling with his hands in his coat pockets, and he looked like he bore not a shred of regret for the act he was now doing.

Enraged, Gallows let go of Virginia and hurled another shard of jagged ice straight at the hand that held Jet hostage, and once again it shattered on contact, leaving a little dark patch of moisture that faded after a few seconds. Ravendor shifted his gaze over to Gallows for a little while, softly rubbing at one of his wrists. "That nearly hurt," The bandit leader confessed, "Do it again. I felt a little tingle. Go ahead." Gallows glowered, and now it was Virginia's turn to hold the Baskar back, keeping her ground by digging her heels as deeply as she could into the ground.

"Ravendor…" Jet breathed, all the air being squashed out of his lungs, "Do us a favor and just _die_. What the fuck do you want from us, anyway?" He felt the blood from his broken ribs hemorrhaging inside of him, and sometimes the worst kind of injuries were ones that could not be openly seen. The android had the distinct feeling that he was going to implode at any given moment. Ravendor extended one of his arms, where his left hand had been clenched into a fist, and slowly released the tension, while Diablo did precisely the same thing. Jet sucked in a breath of sweet nourishing air and felt the torture subside a little, though he was still held captive.

"I do not want anything from _you_," Ravendor replied coldly, "Except maybe to see how long you can keep your intestines inside your body while I am torturing you. Please continue to amuse me for the time being, I have not had this much fun in _years_. Here, how does _this_ feel?" He clenched his fist suddenly, and Jet screamed mindlessly, a tormented and wretched noise, while the audible sound of bones snapping was easily heard. Below them, Virginia screamed as well, but out of empathetic feeling from the boy. Gallows grabbed her and held her tight, while the girl finished her scream, and began to cry.

Jet coughed up blood in one great choke, and lost the ability to hold his head up, feeling his body going numb from the pressure. Blood had welled up at his middle and trickled down Diablo's fingers, making a dripping puddle under the youth's feet. But in that haze of pain, his ears still worked, and he heard Virginia cry. His lavender eyes, which were slowly dulling under the stress, immediately flickered back to life, as if called. A power from deep inside him came to life, like somebody striking a match, and the boy's aura became visible, manifest as a shining green light. The Maxwell Gang had seen this before. This was Jet's power. Gallows's eyes widened in surprise, and hope. The silver-haired boy's face became calm, losing all register of pain, while slowly, the aura within him detached from his body and crept gradually up the fire golem's arm., luminescent and mysterious.

It was Diablo's turn to scream. It's head reared back and uttered a monstrous bellow, not of anger or of contempt, but of pure simple pain. The machine was hurting, the machine was in agony. Being projected by the golem, the hologram of Ravendor doubled over and clutched at his wrist, the look on his face easily readable. He felt exactly what Diablo was feeling, and he didn't look so arrogant now. A gruesome kind of discoloration spread along the hologram's wrist and hand, and after a second, the drifters below recognized it as a black and white distortion of visible static. Ravendor's hologram was breaking down. "K-Kadmon… How are you… You are rewriting my programs with phenomenal speed! How is this possible?!" He turned toward the golem's body, the distortion spreading like wildfire. "Set up a firewall! I authorize it! Diablo, listen to me! Dammit… end this communica-"

The golem, trying to accept the commands, lost control of it's equalizer and fell backwards, smashing into the wall. It groaned loudly in pain, or maybe frustration as rocks crumbled under it's mass and the floor and ceiling shook from the pressure. Catherine let go of Clive's body and stood up, her face paling from a realization of what might occur. Diablo had hit the foundation hard. The ceiling might cave in, just as it had eleven years ago. It was now raining debris, and she covered her head with her hands, falling to her knees. The other drifters also did likewise, and Jet, though in torment, was protected by Diablo's armor around him. He was still screaming, and the youngest member of their entourage had finally decided that this was enough.

Kaitlyn tore herself away from the safety of the little niche with her mother, and ran, tears streaming down her face, towards the golem, rushed words being caught in her throat and robbed of clear speech. "Uncle Ravendor!" She cried, "Stop it! Please stop it now! Don't hurt Uncle Jet anymore! Let him _go!_" She came to a standstill right under where Jet was being held and balled her little hands into fists, wiping her face with the blue sleeve of her dress. "Please," The girl sobbed, "_Stop it_!"

Catherine ran a few paces over towards her daughter, but found herself frozen, unable to enter the battlefield with so many different dangers falling around her. Clive's body was left abandoned and the ex-drifter looked up, feeling her heart seemingly being wrenched from her body. A shadow appeared around Kaitlyn's body, unnoticed by her, but seen by everybody else. A huge part of the ceiling was breaking away from it's spot, and now it fell, almost slowly, towards the defenseless little girl. She was going to be crushed, she was going to die. Nobody could reach her. She was finished. "Kaitlyn!" Catherine screamed, making her decision and running towards her, although she knew it to be too late. The small girl realized her predicament far too late, gasping and throwing herself onto the ground. She cried, because this was to be the end…

…That never came. She felt a rush of wind over her back, and then an intense feeling of heat all over her body, combined with a sensation of suffocation. The air was so hot, it was difficult to breathe. Slowly, she opened her grey eyes, and saw her mother, from outside a barrier of thick crimson metal. The falling rock had rolled to the side after it had hit the back of Diablo's huge hand, shielding the girl from the crushing blow. It had moved there just in time. Catherine sat down heavily, overwhelmed. Kaitlyn crawled under from under the hand and flung herself into her mother's arms, while fixing a look at the hologram controlling the golem that had saved her. It was a mix between confusion, and something else that she just could not describe.

Ravendor could not fight off Jet's power any longer, having used the last of his conscious strength to move the golem's hand one more time. The body of his hologram was stained with patches of static, and he was clutching at his head as if he was experiencing excruciating pain. The green light that was the energy of Adam Kadmon had covered nearly one side of the golem's body, neutralizing the connection between Ravendor and the machine. The uplink had become too damaged, and bandit leader slowly disappeared in a stream of static.

Without anybody to command it, Diablo's hand went limp, and Jet weakly slid out of it's grasp, lading with a light 'thud' next to his machine gun. He had been pulverized, and his body was morbidly twisted, bruises already beginning to make an appearance. Virginia rushed to him and gently pulled the youth up into her lap, where she felt for herself how soft his body had gone after the pressure. His shirt was wet with blood, and his chest didn't feel right, some of his ribs had been snapped out of shape. He slowly opened his eyes. The drifter leader noticed how glazed over they looked. "Guess I…bought us… some time…eh?" He whispered, then coughed feebly. "Damn that… bastard to Hell…" He added as an afterthought, concentrating on breathing. Virginia hugged him, not saying a word, but the showing of emotion was enough to fill a hundred sentences. Jet's eyes focussed on her. "You worried? …Don't be… worried. I'll be… fine…"

Gallows crept up to them, though his neck was bent to stare at the ceiling. In regards to the foundation, it had more or less settled down, though the room they were in seemed ten times more vulnerable now. The Baskar could see the merit in Jet's previous remark over his idea. If they _had_ called in a Guardian for assistance, then they probably would have been dead meat by now. There was no sense in endangering themselves any more than they had to. Kaitlyn crept up to Gallows and timidly took his hand, while Catherine had gone back to bring Clive's body over to the others. Visually speaking, it looked like they had incurred severe losses. It sobered them up a lot, that was the truth.

Catherine stretched Clive's body out on the ground carefully and checked him for his pulse. It was still there, and he was alive. She didn't know what had caused his blackout, and all she wanted was for him to come back. How were they going to beat Ravendor without him? Jet had done his fair share of work, but throughout all of their lives, Clive had been the only one who could talk Ravendor back to his senses. Besides the late Kaitlyn, he was the only one. And this made her think back to what had just happened, where the golem had shielded Kaitlyn's life. Had that been intentional? Was that Ravendor's doing? She just didn't know.

Jet pushed Gallows's hands away when the priest tried to heal him, looking towards the hulking shell of the golem. He coughed, coating his hand with a spattering of blood as he did so. "Look… he isn't dead… I just… knocked him out for a while… He'll be back… soon… So next time… we'd better mean business…"

Whether it was death, or just a mere slip into unconsciousness, Jet Enduro faded away.

xxx

Clive had fought in combat a thousand times in the past, but this time, there was a degree of exhilaration brought about by the use of the sword that was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The muscles in his arms groaning, he let out a roar and pushed Boomerang away, winning the weapon lock. The knight was forced a few steps back and leant to the left as Clive's sword whistled past his ear, knowing enough about himself to remember that he always attacked on the right hand side first. He swung left, then right again, the blade of his weapon forming a figure eight turned on it's side as he sliced. Clive didn't make a hit, but got used to the weight of the blade, feeling it lighten a little in his increased confidence. Letting go of his sword with one hand, he raised it and cast a cremate spell, smoke beginning to rise from Boomerang's armor before exploding into flickering flames.

Which died away in less than a second. Boomerang had less than a singular burn mark, and smiling, removed a small item from out of his inventory. A brittle stone tablet, engraved with precision. A fire rune. Clive berated himself severely for his lack of foresight. They were one and they same. Even if Boomerang had never borne such a defense before in his life, that didn't stop him from mimicking all of Clive's inventory and weaponry. This weird dream world made it all possible. _Very well,_ He thought, _So arcana will not work… I must resort to hand-to-hand combat, then…_

Boomerang took his turn, and smashed the flat of his blade against one of Clive's upper arms, trying to disarm him without waste. The drifter grunted in pain but kept the appendage in usage, stepping away and yielding ground to his opponent. The knight thrust the end of the blade at Clive's face, but it had been calculated just in time and Clive leant sharply to one side, the edge scraping against his cheek. It didn't draw blood, but succeeded in leaving a think white line. The sword was powerful, but in the way it was designed, it wasn't too sharp. It was a smashing weapon, not a cutting weapon. Now, if only he could use that to his own advantage…

__

What? Perhaps I could bludgeon him to death? No, that would never work! Well, I have to do **something**! Clive ducked low, under Boomerang's blade that was still in mid-thrust, and rammed into the metal demon using a similar tactic he had devised when fighting the crab bubbler, trying to use his weight to knock Boomerang over. And if that didn't work, the sharp elbow to the stomach would have at least hurt him a little. Clive had to remind himself of what he was fighting, and that dirty tricks were permitted, and _anything_ was by the book. Anything.__

Anything… Just like this dream world! The drifter thought suddenly, barely avoiding being kneed in the stomach by his enemy. He had hit an idea, here. If this world was just composed of what his mind believed to be so, then if he changed what his mind believed, like when he altered the appearance of Ka Dingel, what would happen? Could it benefit him, in some way? Could it turn the tides of battle? It was time to find out!

"This is _my_ dream!" Clive cried, stepping backwards a good few paces. "Therefore, _I_ am it's master! Gravity now listens to _me_!" Upon hearing this, Boomerang's expression did not flicker one bit, though he was hunched over slightly from Clive's last attack. The drifter shouldered his sword with what seemed to be a lot of difficulty, given it's weight, and crouched down, focussing. If this didn't work, he was going to look like a _really_ big idiot.

Clive broke into a run, held his sword as tightly as he could, and when he was only a foot away from making contact with his enemy, he _leapt_. Clive felt the dream world shift and lighten around his body, and then, there was nothing between him and the ground but air. It almost felt like he was _flying_. Ka Dingel was only at half it's height after the ancient explosion that had nearly destroyed it, and finding a ledge that was nearly at the top, but not quite, Clive shifted gravity again and fell onto the debris-ridden ridge, panting. That had taken a lot out of him.

He rolled over, onto his back, and looked up at the purplish-blue sky. He had fled. Was this cowardice? No, he had to think and prepare. He didn't even have a plan yet, and being the kind of person that he was, he _really_ couldn't function well without a good plan of attack. It would take a little while for Boomerang to follow him up there, because when he stood up and looked down to the land around him, he found that he was very, _very_ high up.

Protected for a few precious moments by his new barrier of defense, Clive fell to his knees and took some deep steadying breaths, tenderly rubbing his left should where a great ache was beginning to manifest from the handling of his weapon. He had a moderate amount of skills when it came to it's usage, but the blade itself was just too big, too cumbersome for him to wield any longer. It was killing him. He didn't have Boomerang's great strength or endurance anymore, although those qualities had been boosted considerably ever since his recession into a demon body. Even with this, he knew he was losing. Clive wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and leaned against the Dark Guardian Blade as he had thrust it into the decrepit debris that made up the floor, using it as a crutch.

"What was all this learning and living for if I cannot even defeat my former self?" He wondered aloud through his heavy breathing, the cold of the sword permeating through the hilt and pommel, into his body. The sword was not suited for him, it was built for Boomerang, not Clive Winslett. "It's too heavy… the weight… the burden… the sin… I cannot carry it anymore. I need something lighter, I need another blade!" He breathed, slouching forward. The movement of his body made an object fall out of an inner pocket in his coat, landing on it's side and rolling a bit before it fall flat down in front of the demon, and the sword. Clive's gaze was drawn to it, for a bore a slight hazing glow, like a golden mist about it's golden surface. The Lust Jaw shone faintly, warmly, kindly.

Letting go of his sword, he picked up the medium like it was made of fragile glass, holding it between two palms and studying it's ancient insignia. A carved claw mark, Luceid's sigil, etched into the golden stone. Time seemed to slow around him, and he carefully pressed his fingers against each of the claw's digits, feeling the warmth flow up his arm and enter his body, warming his soul. A part of Luceid was inside this stone, inside the sword, inside himself, and he had carried it around him for such a very long time. It was all so interconnected, so close, that he could nearly feel her standing next to him… Watching over him…

With his left hand, he held the Lust Jaw, with his right hand, he gripped the handle of his blade. They were both instruments for the desire Guardian, filled with her blessing, her hope, and her love. They reacted with each other, and this time, it was Clive Winslett that was it's medium. Gravity lightened, and a golden glow filled the auras of the three mediums, calling power from the ether. _…Luceid, help me…_ Clive prayed.

For the next few seconds, both his eyesight, and his memory failed him utterly. It grew so bright that he could barely see, and he nearly fainted from the immense rush of power, his mind blacking out entirely. When he came to, he felt weak and fell to his side, but his hands were clenched around the grip of a weapon, and neither the Lust Jaw, nor the Dark Guardian Blade was to be seen. Clive's throat went dry, and he was drained of all his power, as if it had been spent in the outburst of sudden energy. Taking a few seconds to stabilize his breathing, the metal demon climbed to his feet, heavily leaning on the thin blade of his weapon.

Thin blade? Clive pulled the sword out from the floor of stone and regarded the modified blade in the light, the jagged pommel was made out of the golden slate of the Lust Jaw, while the ice-blue blade was an alteration from the metal of the Dark Guardian Blade. The two objects had melded into one another, and joined as one. The result was an almost light-as-a-feather katana that fit snugly into Clive's waiting hand, becoming almost an extension of his right arm. It felt wonderful, just _right_. Clive smiled, he had seen the like of the weapon before, not too long ago, in his dreams. " _Kuro_… _negai_… _ken_…" The words were from another language, but fit together perfectly, as if they were fashioned only for this blade. "Kuronegaiken… That will be your name, from now on…"

Applause. Clive looked towards the source of the sound and spotted Boomerang not to far away, his dark hands clapping in a quiet display of approval. His larger and thicker sword was leaning against some rubble beside him, and his crimson red eyes looked quite amused. "Do you endeavor to make this more interesting for me, Clive? So be it. But remember that we don't have forever to fight this out, and every second that you spend here is a second wasted in the real world. Who knows? Your family might already be dea-"

The flash was an arc of blue light, focussed in a blur of movement. Boomerang sensed it, and even knew that it had fed of his own experiences, but could not, and did not have the reflexes needed to evade the blow. Clive was suddenly behind him, his speed augmented by his manipulation of his own dream world, and the frosty metal of his modified blade now bore a faint outline of stolen blood. Boomerang lightly touched his cheek, and delayed by a few seconds of uncertainty, blood began to flow from a shallow gash on his cheek. Clive straightened up. "I will not let them die." He said, refusing to turn around.

But Boomerang forced him to as the elder metal demon grabbed his waiting weapon all of a second and spun around, using the movement of his body to perform his own horizontal arc cut. Clive blocked it by grasping Kuronegaiken with both hands and forcing all the muscular power in his arms into the sword, fending off the attack. Though Kuronegaiken was thinner and smaller, it still bore the resilience of it's previous incarnation. Clive allowed the pressure of the weapons clash to force him backwards, and he took a step off solid ground, relying on the altered gravity and dimensions of the dream world to ease his fall.

Trusting in his decision, the fall felt short than what it really was, and he landed on a lower level of the broken Ka Dingel, upon a small jutting balcony that had been partially destroyed during the explosion. The impact was minimal and he immediately ducked behind a column of stone, awaiting Boomerang's arrival. With his back to the stone, Clive held his breath and straightened the sword out in front of him, turning the blade this way and that until he could get a reflection of the balcony embossed in the blue metal. It was too blurred for him to see things properly, but he easily detected Boomerang's movement as he followed Clive, alighting on the platform with the grace of a cat.

In a crouch, Boomerang's eyes flicked around the area, patiently unmoving until he could discern Clive's location. His hand gradually crept up to the small leather sheath he kept behind his left shoulder, and held it there, in wait. His tightened his hold on the Dark Guardian Blade with the other, and stood up tall, finally taking a step forward. Every motion was carefully calculated depending on the environment around him, and the Quarter Knight already knew precisely where Clive was, even before he chose to reveal it himself.

Clive stepped out and held his sword up in the defensive once more, while Boomerang's hand moved with incredible speed and hurled his deathly honed Saber Fang straight at the drifter. It whistled with murderous glee as it cut through the air, orihalcum blades singing in the promise of bloodshed. A thousand men had been felled by this simple, yet horrible weapon. The attack was called the _Boomerang Dynamic_, and it almost never missed. Contact was made, a spark-filled screeching grating of air, and then silence, followed by two metallic tinkling sounds.

Inside, he was a tumult of adrenaline, fear, and exhilaration. Outside, he was totally calm. It must have been some of Boomerang's personality rubbing off on him, but it looked like nothing was wrong. His body was moving on orders given by his mind, but nothing emotional of panicky filtered through. He was in perfect sync with himself, both body and mind. Yes, it must definitely be Boomerang who was making this possible, though he was his enemy. Clive lowered his sword, and the Saber Fang fell harmlessly to the ground in two separate halves, cut cleanly in two. It nearly bothered him, because it used to be his _own_ weapon, but he pushed those old memories aside, looking at Boomerang levelly and smiling.

The younger demon switched to the offensive, taking a more advanced stance with his right arm held back so that his elbow was bent with himself turning ever so slightly to one side, while he gingerly touched his fingers to a spot near the end of the blade on the flat side, his muscles coiled like a spring, ready to attack. He charged and thrust forward, aiming at a weak spot in the older demon's armor and physiology, right below his chest-plate, and a little to the left. Without warning, Boomerang sidestepped Clive, released his sword, laced his fingers together and brought them down over the back of Clive's head in a powerful hammerblow. The drifter cried out and went down, prone only for a second, rolling over and slicing at the air above him. Blood flew, and one of Boomerang's arms went nearly dead, a vital tendon cleanly cut.

Clive drew himself up and felt the back of his head, rubbing his neck and bringing a smear of black blood across it and his hand. Boomerang really did hit _hard_. Clive was surprised that he hadn't actually been knocked out. Hearing a shred of fabric being torn, Clive remembered his defenses and turned around sharply, meeting the eyes of his skilled opponent. Boomerang's arm was hanging almost limply, while his fingers strove to maintain their hold on his sword. The knight had torn a long strip of white fabric off his ninja gi, and was now winding it swiftly around his hand, tying the sword there so he could continue to hold it. Clive heard him curse under his breath. "You know, you are one of the strongest demons I have ever fought, Boomerang." Clive admitted, while he waited for the other demon to finish his repair, keeping the honors of swordsmanship in play.

"You're not doing too bad yourself…" The knight replied, pulling the cloth tight across his injury and then raising his arm slightly to test it's effectiveness. "Of course, that's because you've had an exceptional education in warfare, wouldn't you say?" Clive just chuckled at this and nodded. Let Boomerang take credit if he wanted, especially if he did deserve it. When the older demon was finished, Clive held Kuronegaiken tighter and launched himself into the air, using his manipulation of the dream world to hold himself in place. The more he tried this, the easier it became. He hung there in space, floating.

Boomerang snorted at this showy display of power and jumped towards Clive while bringing his sword back like a baseball player getting ready to swing, ignoring the cries of pain being given by his injury and focussing his mind into one objective. Kill. Fun and games were over, and this was his only chance to leave this world and finally see Luceid again. If he lost, then his promise would remain broken forever. He knew he was _not_ the kind of demon to break his promises! Clive would die, and then it could all finally be over! He just had to get back to her… It had been too long…

Clive was preparing a cheap shot. It was dirty, it was underhanded, but it had to be done. He couldn't afford to lose. Assuming the advanced battle stance once more, he switched hand and trusted his weaker arm with the weight of his blade, holding his right hand closed against the blade. If he did this too late and Boomerang got in the swing first, then it was all over. Clive closed his eyes and _listened_ to the voice inside the sword, a silent whisper, or an echo of his intuition, telling him when to strike…

__

Strike…Now! For Luceid! His mind cried, and Boomerang swung, clenching his teeth. The thick sword nearly tore the air as it moved, and bore down upon Clive's shoulder, cutting a half-foot-long trench in the drifter's shoulder.__

Strike…Now! For Catherine! From their connection, the command also echoed in Clive's mind, and he spaced the fingers on his right hand, activating his grappling iron. It snared Boomerang's armor, and pulled him forward, right onto the sharp point of his blade.

Below, on the warped cobblestones that made up the bridge of Ka Dingel, three black spots of blood pattered on the stone. There was a long wait, and the silence was everywhere, thicker that the dream-fabric of their world. Then, more blood began to fall like a torrent of black rain, in a small localized area underneath the two demons. They were both paralyzed with surprise, one impaled upon the long, sharp katana, the other with a mighty broadsword embedded in his shoulder. Their eyes were wide, and then, losing their ability to remain they, they fell slowly, headfirst, to the ground below.

Faintly, fuzzily, the soul that occupied both incarnations of itself realized where it was, and noted the warmth of the air, and the subsequent descent to the land underneath. It was almost, _almost_ like their dream…

All over again.


	69. Death & Rebirth

Drip, drip, drip.

Despite being a mere distortion of the fabric of dream space and time, the sun managed to pierce though the shroud of nighttime that Clive had imparted on the world, the land shifting into a semblance of the dawn. The cobblestones underneath him felt warm from the light, and damp, slicked down in a pooling puddle of his own blood. He couldn't feel it, because his body had gone totally numb, but the colossal wound in his shoulder exposed the inside of his body, and poured blood all down his side, making the metal demon grow fainter by the minute. Boomerang's sword was still lodged in the injury, like a gigantic splinter, and the cold blue blade happily drunk in the blood spilling around it, absorbing the lost life-force.

Drip, drip, drip.

Boomerang was sitting beside Clive's strewn body, resting calmly on his knees, his hands around the hilt of the thin katana that was buried up to it's jagged pommel in his chest. The other half of the blade stuck out of Boomerang's back, where it collected a small trickle of blood along the length of metal, dripping off the very end. Kuronegaiken was pinning Boomerang's chest plate to his body, otherwise, the knight would have removed it to treat his injury. In addition, Clive's hand was still wound around Kuronegaiken's handle like a death grip, likewise to Boomerang's continuing hold of his own weapon. Both of them refused to let go, and neither allowed themselves to give up.

"Boomerang…" Clive whispered, feeling the left side of his body slowly going dead, nerve by nerve. "Boomerang… Am I… am I dead yet?" He asked, shifting a little and experiencing a wave of pain as his wound moved slightly around Boomerang's blade, letting forth a little bit more blood. Clive's blue eyes were dull behind his glasses, and all over his body, he was stained with the bloodshed of so many previous fights. He had never felt so dirty before in his life, both inside and outside. He felt the warmth of the sunshine, and it only made him feel even worse.

"Not yet…" Replied the elder metal demon, his breathing a little wheezing and labored from a punctured lung. Almost ceremoniously, he gripped his weapon and slid the metal blade out of Clive's wound, the drifter moaning quietly as it's departure cut him even more. Clive held his free hand over his shoulder for a few seconds, holding the gaping injury together and checking it ferocity. If this was reality, he would be dead. But in his dream world, merely seriously injured. The drifter, in turn, withdrew Kuronegaiken's blade from Boomerang's body, sliding out like a needle in the flesh. Blood trickled out of the hole, and the knight tiredly unbuckled his chest plate to relieve the pressure, the piece of metal clattering grimly to the floor.

His white ninja gi was filthy, stained with the long battle had had endured during life, and the more recent one in his death. Boomerang's eyes were watering for some reason, and he rubbed them with a blood-slicked hand, taking slow and steady breaths with the lung that still worked within him. Clive grabbed onto his reclaimed sword tightly with both hands, one upon the grip, and the other so foolishly wrapped around the base of the blade, harshly cutting himself open. He didn't notice, both his ruined and intact shoulders were shaking with unspoken emotion. Clive clenched his fists even tighter, and the cut severed some of his vital veins, while Boomerang watched this, his reaction unreadable.

Unexpectedly, and shakily, Clive lurched up to his knees and slid his injured hand down along the blade, until the side of it was pressing against the serrated edges of the pommel, hurting him even more. This gave him a slightly better grip. The drifter had his eyes closed, but it seemed like he had a mild case of the hiccups, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to kneel. "…I can't die…" He breathed, slowly raising his hands and the sword. "…Not until I… save them…" Clive's voice had a slight aqueous quality to it, because of all the blood down his windpipe, and it was strained with emotion and feeling, while remaining fragmented and slow. "I must… protect them… because… nobody else can…"

Less wounded than Clive was, Boomerang got to his feet and a shadow of doubt flickered across his eyes for a transient moment, using his sword slightly as a crutch. The drifter was still struggling to stand, making no leeway to succeed. It almost looked pathetic to watch from Boomerang's vantage point, but something Clive had said was affecting the elder demon, deeply inside. "The power… to protect?" He mused quietly, gently rubbing the shallow gash to the side of his face. Boomerang inhaled more precious air and sagged against his weapon a little, because it still hurt.

The swing was far slower than any of Clive's previous attempts to attack, and Boomerang was able to parry the blow with the small yet efficient metal of his hand-guard, the sword clashing against the back of his wrist. Clive was on his feet again, struggling, crimson fluid leaking from his body, but still willing to fight. "Yes…" He replied with a tremor, forcing himself over Boomerang, while slowly, the healing factor built into his body gradually began to knit the cleaved fibers of his shoulder together, veins reconnecting, muscle carefully being replaced. It felt like his shoulder was burning fiercely in a fire, though Clive had recently grown to ignore the horrible changes of his body. "Protection… it is the reason why I am still here, why I have not faded away…" He chuckled mirthlessly, with a hint of aggression. "Why I continue to… fight you…"

Growling softly, Boomerang forced the blade away a swift movement and knocked Clive back to the ground, filled with anger and impatience. "Stay where you are, Clive." The knight ordered with an authoritative tone, folding his arms. "Stay on the ground and rot here, fade away to an absolute nothingness. This is your fate, and your body is mine." Boomerang's words were cruel, even to his future self. "Just _die_." He said, smiling darkly. "You are not needed anymore. The superior one has come. Submit."

The weaker demon on the ground timidly touched his wounded should, noting that the wound itself had almost closed. He still felt like he was going to fade away, but he laughed out of a morbid reaction to the pain, pushing himself up with his arms. The nerves had reconnected in his weakened hand, and had a sense of touch once more, curling into fists. "You can…" Clive breathed stubbornly, "You can beat me to the floor… a thousand times… and I will keep on getting up. Nothing will stop me… I won't let it stop me… You can't stop me… I have too much to lose…"

"Is that so?" Replied the other demon drolly, leaning over Clive's body. Swiftly and purposefully, he placed one foot onto Clive's back and forced him savagely down again, receiving a verbal and pained reply from it's recipient. Around them, the morning sunshine began to darken like an infection upon the world, a disease of darkness, eating away at the scene. That part of the singular entity that comprised both Clive _and_ Boomerang was breaking down. They didn't have much time left. Ignoring the changes occurring right in front of him, Boomerang narrowed his eyes, radiating an aura of bitterness. "Let me ask you something, Clive Winslett. Do you think you are the _only_ one who has suffered through this? Do you think you are singular in your pain, your regret? If so, then I can't believe just how selfish I have become." Boomerang tapped himself on the chest, where the stab wound in his chest had completely closed up. "I spent two thousand years in Hell for this chance to see her, do you think I will throw it away so easily?"

Against all common sense, Clive rose again, grabbing his strewn sword and holding his left hand tightly across his middle, to keep his long, though mostly healed wound moderately closed. He groaned from the pangs of pain running through each nerve, and the touch of Kuronegaiken's gold finish was like cold fire to his suffering, though he knew that this weapon was his only way out. Clive's blue eyes focussed upon Boomerang and he raised the katana slightly with much suffering. "I have a seven-year-old daughter." He croaked while trying to keep himself steady and strong. "I never get to see her as often as I would like, and every time we meet she has always grown just a little bit more. She hates celery, but loves to read, and sometimes while I am _so_ far away from home, I receive letters filled with pictures she has drawn for me and signed with her name. Do you think I will throw her away so easily?"

For his rebuttal, Boomerang acted and struck Clive heavily in the chest with the flat of his blade, hearing with his own ears the resounding 'snap' of ribs breaking. His teeth clenched in agony, Clive fell backwards and fire seemed to burst within his chest, grunting from the pain. Boomerang looked away, sniffing the air with disgust. "You love your daughter, do you?" He asked nastily. "Can you think back to _my_ time where I killed hundreds of children and their parents in the ideals of my race? Do you remember how much _fun_ I had doing it, how I was smiling under my helmet as the children died? Does your daughter know this? If she did, would she still call you 'Daddy'?"

Through the torturous pain of his broken ribs and bruised body, Clive let this insult roll off him without effect, struggling to stand again. "Those mind games will not work on me, Boomerang. Those sins belong to _you_, not me. I have already been reincarnated out of that mess of sin, so you cannot accuse me of hypocrisy any more than I can accuse you of _my_ wrongdoings." He nearly fell over when he assumed his battle position, but somehow managed to stand, working on willpower alone. Then, his shoulders sagged, giving in to a doubt gnawing away inside his body. "Why must we fight like this? Nothing can be accomplished in this way!"

Boomerang looked blank. "That is just the way things are, or the way we have chosen to deal with. We have both fought all our lives for many reasons, so the only way this being we are comprised of can settle conflict is through a fight. It is sad, really, but that is just the way things are." This time, he was waiting for Clive to attack first. "En garde!" He cried, on the defensive.

His lunge was strong in the beginning, but something vital inside him snapped under the pressure and Clive slumped against Boomerang in mid-attack, his body astoundingly close to giving out. His perseverance was insanely suicidal, trying to fight when he was only a hair's breadth away from total expiration. Clive raised his sword arm weakly, and Boomerang only had to carefully grab his wrist to prevent the attack, while Clive lost all feeling and Kuronegaiken slipped from his grasp. His demeanor changed nearly instantly as the Quarter Knight felt Clive's despair as almost his own, and dropped his own weapon to prevent the drifter from keeling over. Even so, Clive murmured something faintly and tried to strike his older self with his bare hands, though he did not do much more than weakly graze Boomerang's chin. Hesitantly, Boomerang pushed Clive away, the green-haired man falling to the ground on his back, breathing unevenly.

Clive could no longer stand, and Boomerang had won. Somehow, the world around them appeared to realize this and change back to it's former self, no longer under the influence of Clive's mind. The drifter tried to get up, to try one more time, but his limbs had numbed from his weakness, and though the spirit was willing, his metallic flesh was _still_ too weak. Emotionally introverting, Clive went silent, regretting on the inside his inferiority. Somebody nearby moved around him, and then sat down, in thought. A span of time passed for the both of them, unbreakable, but Boomerang did not finish Clive off. He just… sat there, thinking. Lucied had been the only one close enough to Boomerang to know exactly how expressive the demon was with his facial language, and why he wore a helmet most of them time. Right now, his red eyes were hard in contemplation.

"Kaitlyn." He said.

xxx

Structures degraded as everything grew closer to the original darkness of that world, breaking down, disintegrating into a black inky mess, where it stretched out and covered the land and sky with rolling shadow, curling around the only two people left in the dimension. Clive was lying on his back, totally weakened, but still conscious of his changing surroundings. Kuronegaiken was placed bloodied by his side, and he lay there like a warrior being prepared for an honorable burial. Boomerang was sitting silently beside him, leaning against the blunt flat section of his sword, the end of the blade buried in the ground between his crossed legs. The knight was tired in his own fashion, feeding off Clive's exhaustion and feeling mentally drained. The match has not come to a suitable conclusion, and neither of them knew what to do.

Clive looked up into the now pitch-black sky, his heart sinking in misery. He remembered Diablo, it's seemingly boundless power, fuelled by Ravendor's malice. Jet and the others were probably fighting it back in reality, where Catherine and Kaitlyn were caught in the crossfire. The drifter closed his tired eyes, sighing and feeling his throat tighten. They weren't going to win, all of them put together couldn't hop to defeat a weapon feared for over a thousand years. Even if he managed to come back and rejoin them in their battle, it would be without his short-term memory and he would be as useless as any one of them. He would be human again, but only long enough for him to die. A catch-22, he thought glumly, he would die either way. That would be pointless. No, the Maxwell Gang needed somebody who could fight, somebody who had had experience with golems before, who understood the technology of thousands of years ago…

And the answer was sitting right next to him.

"Boomerang, you have to go." Clive said as he turned his head to face the other demon, letting go of Kuronegaiken for a moment to adjust his surprisingly intact glasses. The Quarter Knight looked down at his future self and raised one eyebrow in question, but remained silent, waiting to see if Clive would continue. He did, trying to keep his quavering words strong in his emotionally weakened voice. "In reality, Diablo has reawakened, and Ravendor aspires to kill me. He may kill my friends and my family too. I can't… I cannot let that happen, but I know I am not strong enough to defeat him." Looking back up into the dark sky, Clive could have sworn that he saw a star or two flicker for a few moments before fading out. "Boomerang, you are a Quarter Knight, a demon elite, one of the most powerful of your-, _our_ race. Tell me, if you wished to, could you destroy Diablo?"

The elder demon kept himself stoically calm as he thought for a very long time, leaning back on his hands. The Dark Guardian Blade gleamed brightly in his lap, the beautifully-made Ka Dingel depiction showing up clearly in the inner pulse of blue light. The sword seemed to eat away the darkness, and convert it into it's own form of energy. "…Alhazad doted on it's power, but gave it to the inexperienced Zed to command. If the one who pilots it now _does_ have half a brain, then it would be much more powerful than humankind has found it before. However," At this point Boomerang smiled arrogantly, "I am Boomerang Flash, the Executioner. A golem is no match for my superior power. It would not stand a chance."

"Of course." Clive said almost robotically. "You are who you are, and so am I. I wonder which one of us will survive?" He laughed out loud, but it was not out of amusement, just from realization of the irony involved. "A demon elite, with powers unmatched, with the ability to deliver all from the evil that bears down upon us, or a wretch of a soul, tainted, filled with self-loathing and hate? I wonder…" He whispered at the end, beginning to feel his bitter desire to fade away manifest itself in his dream world. Long tendrils of shadow coiled around his arms and legs and held tight, as his subconscious began to reject him and his memory. Clive smiled. "You can take my body, it is rightfully yours, after all. I do not care anymore, but will you find Luceid again, Boomerang? If you get out of here, just please, please do me a favor. Save my loved ones, destroy Ravendor and Diablo, and tell Catherine and Kaitlyn that I am sorry."

The knight stood up and looked down upon Clive and his suffering, at the darkness that was threatening to consume the drifter's soul. Was this what he really had _become_? It felt odd as he tried to figure out what Clive was thinking, the motive for his self-destruction. Did he really _want_ to die? Boomerang knew, as himself, he would have fought it out to the very end. But this weak, humannish demon had given up, accepted death, with only the self-spoken words of a plan to console him. Humans were such _stupid_ creatures to hope like this, and no matter what, Clive continued to live as one of them, because of what he believed in, of the only things he had left. Others. He had to protect the others, believe in others, believe in Boomerang. He was going to give his life to replace the one that Boomerang has lost, and in return, Boomerang would save everyone else. Did Clive really _want_ this?

Boomerang replied casually and indifferently, though he didn't feel it at all on the inside. His sword hand was clenched around the weapon that his knuckles were turning white from the pressure, and he fought not to grit his teeth from empathy. "I _will_ find Luceid. I do as I please…" Boomerang said, the statement familiar in his mouth, because he had said it before thousands of times. Now it seemed to be mocking him. "But," He added, "If I can, if I can force myself to remember your request once you are gone, then I will carry it out. I give you my word on this, I swear." Clive nodded weakly from his shadowy confines, smiling and feeling the weight of worry fall from his chest. He didn't have to be afraid anymore, and in his heart, he knew that Boomerang would keep his word.

Kuronegaiken's blue light suddenly went out, the blade turning to a dull stone grey. It was almost as if it had uttered a tiny sob of grief in realizing what would transpire, and the life-force of the sword, a mixture of the Lust Jaw and Clive's own spirit had fled. Boomerang's Dark Guardian Blade reacted in a flare of increased power, and both demons understood at the same time that this event was like a giant spiritual Life Drain arcana on their souls, weakening one to strengthen the other. Upon pondering the word 'spirit', Boomerang paused, looking over Clive's frail body.

He noticed Clive's tail and knelt, his brow furrowing in perplexity. It looked a lot like Luceid's tail, though it was a little larger in size. It was limp with the rest of Clive's body, but when the drifter noticed that Boomerang was staring at it, he couldn't help but wag the appendage slightly, out of a purely instinctual reaction. "We are under the protection of the wolf spirit guide." Said Boomerang finally, standing back up. "It shows up here on your body, the mark of the wolf, the Guardian of desire. The desire to protect, even if it means the sacrifice of your own existence." He shook his head, thinking back to the riddle that had plagued him on the day he had died. "Humans turn hope into power, and they use that power to protect. Protection means sacrifice, and sacrifice means death." He lost the calm tone of his voice suddenly, clenching his fists. "Why do you want to die, Clive Winslett?! Why do you wish to protect?!"

A dark blight was spreading slowly from Clive's blackened chains into his body, creeping like ink staining across a pristine surface. Affected areas turned dark and lost their solidity, fading into shadow. The drifter was dying, right in front of Boomerang's own eyes. "Because…" Clive said faintly, as if he was speaking from a million miles away, "Because the ones I protect… I love them…" 

The elder demon bowed his head, hating the way he was acting so weak. "The wolf spirit guide…" He muttered, ruby red eyes distant and troubled. "Symbol of the martyr, the sacrifice. We have played this part well, though it meant the ends of our lives." Yes, they were both martyrs, himself upon Ka Dingel so that they humans could defeat Zeikfried, and Clive, so Boomerang could save the others. "You protect others… because you love them? So the power you forge from hope, as protection, can shield others from harm? This is your desire now. You have made your choice, and I have found the answer to my two thousand year old riddle." He had felt the desire to protect before, when he watched Luceid body die at the foot of Ka Dingel, right before he had died. He understood it's purpose, it's meaning, and it all made sense.

Similarly, he could not let Clive die now, because they had both gone though so much together, as the same entity, as one. Yes, this gave him an idea…

The Dark Guardian Blade came down upon Clive's restraints and cut through them like a hot knife into butter, the shadows retreating back into the floor. Boomerang grabbed Clive by the wrist and hauled the drifter to his feet, just barely taking a hold of Kuronegaiken as he was lifted upwards. Unable to stand by himself, the knight dropped his weapon and held Clive by the shoulders, like an adult trying to talk sense into a smaller child. "Martyrdom is all well and good," He announced while his crimson eyes flashed with inner energy, acquired only moments ago, "But I have learnt that needless death creates nothing except a vicious cycle. I _will_ be reborn, and Winslett, you are coming with me."

Kuronegaiken's blade glinted slightly in blue, as it's owner forced himself to reply through his weakness and haze of death. One half of their mind was submitting to the flow of life and death, his own, while another had begun to fight it, Boomerang's own. "…I cannot…" He breathed wearily, only standing up because he was being held. "…If both of us… try and go back at the same time, we will both die…" He tried to pull himself back, so the dregs of non-reality could take him away again. "…It's better you live than me…" He finished up with a sigh.

And it was time for Boomerang to finally tell the truth, what he had been hiding from the very start. "Yes, that is true," He agreed at first, "We will both die. But, in that twin phase of death, somebody else will be reborn. This person will be both of us, and neither of us, all at the same time. He will have both our memories, both our personalities, everything. But he will _not_ be you or me. It's difficult to explain, except that when he is born, we will cease to exist in the shapes that we are. It will be our next reincarnation, though it will be a little different, this time." He let go of Clive, and the younger demon stood all by himself, some strength returning to his body. He appeared to be processing the information.

"Two separate entities becoming a single consummate whole? We will be the same person… without this conflict?" Clive asked, and Boomerang nodded as an answer. "But… if I become somebody else, I will no longer be me. How will I know who I am, if I am made up of the parts of somebody else? What if I forget who I am? Forgetting oneself is just as bad as death, no, even worse." He considered it from Boomerang's position. "Wait, if you can go back by yourself, why are you willing to kill yourself for me? That really does not sound like you at all."

The Quarter Knight made an unusual noise that was a cross between a very short chuckle and a 'hmph'. He wasn't good with emotional topics like this, but thirty years of humanhood had at least coaxed him into trying his best. "You have a daughter called Kaitlyn." He said without much of a point, until he continued. "It might be a little hard for you to accept, but in a way, she is _my_ daughter as well. And now she is in danger, along with everybody else. I do as I please, and I _want_ to save her. It is my fault that I developed your personality, Clive, I might as well reap what I sow, if you get my meaning. In this way, we can reach a compromise, and my atonement will be complete." At last Boomerang _did_ chuckle, and it wasn't nastily either, it was almost kind of friendly. 

__

Atonement through the suffering of one's own sin…I understand now…

That was exactly what Boomerang had done. He had destroyed families, killed so many, and broken loved ones apart with his participation in the great demon war. And then, when was reborn, he became Clive and grew to love others, becoming close enough to care. Afterwards, only a week ago, his family had been ripped away from him by the lycan's curse and Ravendor's ambition, and he had finally understood the hell he had once placed others in during the past. From that, he had learned to grieve and regret his actions, subconsciously associating them with his own past deeds. Boomerang had suffered through his own torture, as a human, as Clive Winslett. The knight had atoned, and now his soul was free.

"You want to see Luceid again." Clive said while feeling Kuronegaiken come back to life with a warm glow, living off a newfound sense of hope. "You have been waiting so long, and I am sure that she has also been waiting for you. If this works, I will help you find her again, I promise." Steadying himself, Clive knew that these few precious seconds were to be the last ones of his life. He had given up death in one way, and embraced it in another. Somehow, he could do this with a smile. Whoever was born from this fusion of conflicted halves, they would at least have the benefit of knowing that both he and Boomerang were at peace. Clive extended his hand, unashamedly aware that he was wagging his tail happily as he did so. Without hesitation, Boomerang shook it.

__

Goodbye Catherine and Kaitlyn. Goodbye Virginia, Jet and Gallows. This is the end of this life, but I will be back to see you again in a new form. Look for me in the soul of another, and know that I love you all. Goodbye!

I will not dwell in the past anymore. I will not let my promises be broken. I will sort out this mess and find you again, Luceid. I promise you this. Your Boomerang will come back, even if it is as somebody else. No longer will I live under the shadow of Ka Dingel! Goodbye!

Two auras melded into one within the darkness, the dream ended, and he woke up.


	70. The Barriers Blocking Your Way

(A/N: Now up to a quarter of a million words, and seventy whole chapters. My gods, we've come a long way. I just needed to say this now, because I am downright amazed. Thank you all for reviewing and helping to make this huge epic great! ^_^) 

"Heal!"

A silvery light twinkled into life and encircled Jet's wounded body, scattering a light rain of ephemeral glitter down upon the boy. Gallows had his hands suspended above Jet's midsection and they glowed faintly with a white aura, expending the needed curative magic. The android grunted softly as the arcana took effect and gritted his teeth in his sleep, refraining from reentering the waking world. Some of the ugly purple bruising along the sides of his arms faded away under the spell, but the greater and more dangerous wounding still stood strong. Virginia noticed the rising and falling of Jet's breathing deepen, and was comforted by the idea that he was in a place where he could not feel pain anymore.

The Baskar frowned and stood up, the glow of the arcana vanishing like a light going out. He had checked over Jet and Clive's bodies with the air of a doctor or healer, and Jet had been set through several heal spells into a stable condition. This was only a temporary solution, but at least the boy would not die. He was still alive, barely, and appeared to be staying where he was, on the borderline between life and death. Gallows knew that he would hold on in his stubborn little way until the very end. Clive, on the other hand, worried him greatly. He was just a corpse that breathed and performed all the involuntary functions, but lacked his signature aura, the essence that controlled his body. He had no mind, he had lost his soul. The priest was somehow reminded of a shuffling grey zombie, but then shook the bad thoughts from his head straight after, trying to remain optimistic.

"He's going to live, Ginny," He told his team leader with a wan smile, "But he needs more than just a regular heal arcana. Dammit, I'd kill for a mega berry right now!" Of all the crops that had flourished during the Secret Garden's harvest season, their very special and fragile mega berry bush had died. It was just bad luck, he guessed, but having a few now would have really been useful. The big Baskar suddenly experienced an incredibly great idea and moved over to Clive's body, remembering that out of all of them, Clive had been carrying the very last ripe mega berry in his inventory. He looked up at Catherine first, who was sitting only a few feet away, with Kaitlyn in her lap. She seemed to be physically and mentally drained, but nodded towards him with a small smile, giving the priest permission to search Clive's body.

Gallows removed Clive hands that were resting over his chest and set them, slightly spaced, by his sides, so he could check the insides of each of his sleeves first. It was not uncommon for a drifter to have a small hidden pocket in the upper inside of a coat sleeve, to hide an item or possibly even a weapon. He found nothing except for the wrist grappling mechanism that the green-haired man always wore, and then dropped Clive's arm gently and searched through the deeper and larger pockets on the inside of his coat, which were filled with a very strange variety of items. Gallows didn't bother to check the other drifter's bullet case that was strapped to his leg, knowing that it would have only contained ammo for his rifle. He pulled out some rumpled-looking status curative items, a few dark feathers picked up sometime during his journey, an oddly shaped rock that looked like a crescent moon, his mighty gloves, and, Gallows grimaced when he identified what he had grasped, a dead mouse.

Flinging the dead carcass away as swiftly as possible and wiping his hands on his yellow open vest, Gallows concluded that Clive must have used up his mega berry sometimes during the time he had spent away from everyone else. It was too bad, but appeared to be true. The priest thought about the dead mouse and pulled a disgusted face, it had most likely been a snack that he had forgotten about during his lycan phase. Finally, he removed the last item from Clive's inventory, recognizing it and raising an eyebrow. It was Kaitlyn's ribbon, and though it was still dirty, it was perfectly intact.

"My ribbon!" Kaitlyn exclaimed as she got up and hopped on over to Gallows's side. "Daddy must'a found it as my clue! Wow, I thought clues and stuff like this only worked in books!" The Baskar chuckled and handed the girl back her ribbon, so she could fix it back into the place where it was supposed to be. Clive's hand curled slightly by his side, a gradual movement, and very faintly, his sleeping face showed the tiniest hint of strain. It was so small, however, that nobody nearby noticed. Kaitlyn finished tying her ribbon and giggled, the sound of her laughter working amazingly well to boost their collective morale. "This is an adventure, just like in a book!" She said.

"You think we're in a book?" Gallows smiled outwardly, while he felt nervous on the inside. "I hope not, stories that run like this don't usually have happy endings. I hope the author's unoriginal, 'cause I want a happy ending." He added with his own little laugh. Kaitlyn smiled and nodded, likening their situation to something else actually took the tension off, and gave them a little chance to calm down. Lightly, she patted her old rediscovered ribbon and craned her neck up to stare at the huge golem looming above them, frozen in a mid-movement. It's thickly plated hand was still partially buried into the gritty dirt of the ground from when it had protected Kaitlyn, as if she was still there. It was like the creation was somehow frozen in time.

Virginia's expression darkened as she gazed upon the golem. She hardly ever got to be truly upset, and now she looked like she had passed that line ages ago. "_He's_ in there," She hissed, "Ravendor. He did this to Jet, and he claims he knows my father. That means he must have been associated with the Prophets-" She mulled over this for a little while. He could control ancient technology, he knew Werner, and he had that eerie sinister and patronizing aura which she could only correlate with that deadly trio. "No," Virginia argued with herself, "He _is_ a Prophet. We can't let history repeat itself, we have to destroy him as quickly as possible." Masking her own personal bloodlust with a nobler cause, she looked riled and ready to tear somebody's head off. 

In a way that was almost becoming sort of a habit, Catherine took over Clive's position as the lateral thinker in their party. "Virginia, think about this." She intoned. "Ravendor has hidden himself behind a shell of technology and impervious metal. However, he must have found _some way_ to get inside the machine himself, so one can only assume that there is a back door." The ex-drifter smiled. "There is _always_ a back door. It is a golden rule. We must simply use the same doorway that Ravendor has opened. Then we can…" She faltered, the words sticking in her throat. "…kill him." 

__

…What is this? I know what I am feeling… but… No, snap out of it! I cannot love him anymore! It was over years ago! He is no longer the man I fell in love with! Time has…changed him… Catherine glanced over towards Clive's body, biting her lip. _Time has changed everybody…_

"I'm gonna take a wild crazy guess here." Said Gallows, pulling himself onto two feet. He pointed towards the golem, now the center of everybody's attention. "Let's just say that this big clunker is like Lombardia. Y'know, big machine thingies and stuff. It must have an entry hatch somewhere." The Baskar's gaze ran along Diablo's arm and up to it's shoulders, giving access to it's back. The ideas in his head connected and yielded to one great big plan. Gallows scratched his head lightly and strolled over to the golem's hand, reaching upwards to try and proper grasp. There was nothing along the back of it's hand to hang onto, and the platform he was aiming for was too high for him to merely push himself upwards with his hands. Gallows was standing on his tip-toes, struggling.

Catherine gave him a leg-up herself, while Kaitlyn did her best to push the man up with her own small amount of strength. Gallows leaned the weight of his upper body onto Diablo's hand and swung a leg up as well, dragging himself, on his stomach, onto the smooth metallic surface. He had made it. The big Baskar waved to the others below him with a happy air and battled the slippery surface underneath him in order to stand up, making it eventually. Then, he looked towards the next part of his slow journey. Diablo's great arm was extended in suck a way that it could be scaled by a sure-footed person, provided they had the balance not to fall of themselves. Gallows, wisely, didn't trust himself enough to try it like that.

With the surface area of Diablo's shell being cooled down because of it's deactivation, Gallows got the idea that he should construct a pathway for himself up to the giant machine's shoulder, and search for the entry hatch from there. Below him, Catherine took Kaitlyn's hand and looked worried, slowly moving away from the golem. "Please get down from there, Gallows." She intoned. "We don't know when that thing will wake up again. What if it awakens when you are still on it?" Gallows grinned and gave her an 'A-OK' sign, telling her that he would be perfectly fine. He felt that he was onto something here.

The freezer doll came in useful at a time like this. He removed the small snowman toy from his inventory and got a firm grip on it in his hands. It felt cold, but the frost didn't penetrate any further than the outer felt layer of cloth, though it bore a heart of ice. Gallows had never really understood the origin of his toy's magical power, but really didn't care, as long as it did it's job. Holding it out in front of him, he pointed the small carrot-shaped nose of the doll at the golem's armor and focussed his spirit, which woke up the ice sprite hidden in the toy. It sprayed a light blue beam of frost straight at Gallows's floor, and the Baskar moved the beam up and around in a special way, forming a series of horizontal lines parallel to each other along the crimson monster's arm.

The lines became a scaffolding network of jagged shards of ice, clinging to the surface with a tenacious grip. The froze without the expulsion of water, the magically generated ice as dry as a bone. This was good, because it would not be slippery. Gallows just had to be careful not to expose any part of his skin to the surface of the ice, or else he would be welded there like somebody with their tongue stuck to a metal pole. Stepping forward, he set his foot upon the first step of ice, testing it to see if it would break, and reassured, put all of his weight onto the small platform. It held. Gallows sucked in a deep breath and leaned forward to take his second step, unconsciously reaching out to grasp a peak of ice for a secure handhold. He stopped himself just in time. That was a close call, he had nearly disregarded his own advice.

"Here, use these and don't squeeze anything too hard!" Virginia called as she picked up Clive's pair of mighty gloves, stuffing one into another so they would stick together, and tossed the piece of attire over to Gallows who nearly missed catching them. The priest slipped them on, despite the gloves being a little too small for him, and felt within his aura that his strength had increased slightly from the item, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times in order to get used to the feeling. He grabbed onto the small spire of ice, and then let go. His hand didn't cling to the surface as it would have without the gloves. Great, they actually worked! He climbed the rest of the way with a little haste, wanting to get off the ice stairway before it faded away. The power of the freezer doll was strong, but only temporary. Gallows stood still on the golem's shoulder to gather his bearings, as the ice became mere wisps of fog and departed, leaving nothing behind.

The little girl saw the ice dissipate and waft away in streams of white mist, cold and somehow refreshing. She let go of her mother's hand and ran over to the trailing cloud, taking pleasure in running through it and feeling the cold touch of an icy breath against her face. Having grown up in such a sheltered life in Filgaia, she had never felt cold like this before. It was fascinating. Kaitlyn fanned her hand through it and became disappointed when the mist evaporated into the atmosphere, and the white cloud she had been looking at had become clear. It revealed to her something unexpected. She blinked a couple of times as she looked up Diablo's opposite arm, the one Gallows had not chosen to climb upon. Then, she went back over to her mother, pointing out the object of her curiosity. "Something's glowing on the big monster's arm, Mama." Kaitlyn explained, gesturing to the golem. "It looks like the picture writing in Daddy's archymonology books."

Gallows sat down and leaned over as much as possible without the risk of falling off to see the symbols that Kaitlyn had noticed, getting a glimpse of something aqua-green and pulsing on an invisible surface suspended above the back of Diablo's left hand. The lights changed every so often, which suggested movement, but he couldn't see anymore so he called to the others for better information. "Hey guys, what is it? What do you see?" He looked for a way down from the silent red monstrosity, but going down would be a lot more dangerous than coming up. If he jumped, there was a chance he could break a leg or worse, so he had no choice but to stay put. He could see from an excellent vantage point most of the cavern they were in, and Jet and Clive's body lying peacefully on the ground. Virginia had Jet's head in her lap and she stroked his silver-white hair lightly as she waited and hoped for him to wake up. Gallows felt something depressing sink within him. Jet's aura had faded and had become faint that it was barely even there.

Holding Kaitlyn's hand firmly for her protection, Catherine moved over to Diablo's side and inspected the markings herself. They were angular and elaborate, though they seemed to bear meaning as they flickered from one symbol to the next every few seconds. Catherine inspected them closely, even going so far as to try and touch them herself, though they were way out of her reach. "I have seen this before." She announced, eliciting surprise from those who were conscious to hear her. "This is a runic script, in the language of the demon race. These symbols are common in some of the ruins with a direct connection to the Great War, though I am sad to say that I cannot read them myself." Looking up to where Gallows sat and catching his expression she added; "I studied this scripture when I was working with my father, if you're wondering where I learnt this."

Virginia glanced up from Jet for a moment to look sadly at Catherine, the drifter leader's usually determined visage filled with forlorn despair. "We've lost Jet and Clive," She said to the other three, "And I don't know what it was that Jet did, but it looked to be effective. Now that he's unconscious… what are we going to do?" Virginia closed her eyes and sighed. "I am the leader, so it's up to me to make the decision, right?" The girl shifted in her spot and dragged Jet's broken body into her lap, for he was a little smaller and lighter than she. For the first time Virginia actually noticed just how small he was, and how he had hidden that fact by talking big, acting big and fighting fiercely without complaint. The soul of an adult he might have had, but physically, he was still just a boy. And he needed proper medical attention as soon as possible.

That clinched it. Clive wasn't here to help and guide her anymore, but that didn't matter, she had to do this herself. It was her duty. Her responsibility. Her choice. She put her hand around his front and felt that some ribs had snapped from their place, and Jet grimaced from the touch, recoiling backwards into an even deeper unconsciousness. "Even if Clive's coma and Ravendor _are_ inexplicably linked, I think Clive would agree with me when I say that getting out alive is better than finding out the truth. We have everybody here, we need to escape before that golem wakes up again!" This was what she had to do. She didn't want the deaths of any of her teammates on her conscience. Besides, they had Kaitlyn back, didn't they?

"We can't carry them both." Catherine argued softly in her own forceful fashion, against Virginia's decision. "And we won't leave either of them behind. Besides," She glanced back towards Diablo and felt a little shiver run down her spine, and recalled the look Ravendor had shot her when they eyes had met after eleven years of separation. It had said; _'You've found somebody else? I can't believe it…'_ It made her feel strange on the inside, and vehemently didn't want to meet the real Ravendor in person. "If we leave Ravendor with Diablo, he might find another and more dangerous way to kill us all. One that might involve innocent bystanders. It's better that we stop this, here and now."

"Aren't _we_ innocent bystanders?" Gallows called from his perch on Diablo's shoulder, looking around for the entry hatch at the same time. He turned around and now had his back to the others. "I mean, _I_ didn't really want to be dragged into all this mess. To save Clive and Kaitlyn, right, sure, I'd lay down my life for them in a jiffy, but nobody mentioned that more demons and machines of war were goin' to be in our gameplan." He turned back to them, looking serious, but then breaking out into a trademark Gallows grin. "Sorry if I'm being cynical, I'm just trying to fill the void with pessimism that Jet's being asleep has left with us." Virginia smiled when she heard this, and hugged the boy to her chest just a little bit tighter. 

Kaitlyn was looking at the flickering runes with a wonderment that only a child could possess. There were three altogether, and constantly changing due to some kind of impetus. The first symbol paused for a very long time, while the other two matched up, and then flickered again. The little girl beamed with some kind of accomplishment and tugged on her mother's arm, pointing towards the golem. "Now it says it's M o'clock, Mama!" She declared, indicating the first rune that did indeed look somewhat like the letter 'M'. Gallows, being driven mad by wanting to see the writing for himself, tried to creep down Diablo's arm and got stuck halfway by fighting against gravity and what it would have him do, go splat at the bottom. He was now stuck there, clinging to the golem like a monkey on a coconut tree.

"M o'clock…?" Catherine murmured after hearing her daughter's words, narrowing her eyes as she raised a hand to her chin, unconsciously mimicking Clive's posture for whenever he was deeply thinking. It was funny, but thinking about that seemed to make her remember back to when she was just a little girl herself, when her father had shown her a very rare commodity in times like these, a repaired treasure from one of the ruins he had been to. It was an old, brass tarnished pocket watch, but unlike others of it's ilk, it had run on digital time. It had amazed her during her entire childhood, how the numbers seemed to change by themselves without anybody touching them. Her mind made the connection, and then went that one step further into speculation. Why would a golem need to keep track of the time, unless it was…

"Everybody get away from that thing!" She cried out suddenly, taking a step away. "That's not just regular runic script! It's a timer! Diablo is counting down to _reactivate_!" Her words spread like wildfire throughout the rest of their team. Virginia stood bolt upright and Gallows made a strangled yelping noise, probably in the worst position he could be in. Kaitlyn looked confused and afraid, not understanding what Catherine had said, but the tone itself had made it sound urgent. The ex-drifter shot a frightened look towards their two comatose companions, wondering how they were going to evacuate and carry them all at the same time. It would be impossible to bring _both_ of them, but by the Guardians, and she had sworn this only moments ago, they weren't going to leave either one behind.

The estimated cool-down period and erasure of Jet's program rewriting rolled into a silent end, the three runic numbers matching up and hitting infinite zero. Steam rose from Diablo's vents and the aqua scripture flashed into a scarlet red before disappearing in a curt twinkle. It's crimson armor pulsed into red-hot heat once more, and with a twitching movement, it's left hand uncurled and hooked it's fingers into a claw, the giant groaning as it shifted into it's active mode. Gallows cried out as the armor he was clinging onto became as incinerating as the heat from a furnace, and he let go involuntarily, trying to get away from the burning. He fell backwards, but had fallen from a particularly low perch and only hurt his back mildly, grunting as the back of his head hit the floor. He rolled over, got up, and scuttled away.

Virginia found that she couldn't get up and escape without taking Jet with her, and if she did, she risked the chance of injuring him greatly. No, she just could not move. The drifter leader squeezed her eyes closed and shielded Jet's body with her own, choking out a small sob. Catherine and Kaitlyn just backed into the wall, stunned into silence. They didn't know if they should be afraid or not. Fearful for their friends, or course, but for themselves? Would Ravendor hurt them? Somehow, Catherine didn't think so.

As if on cue, Ravendor reappeared. His hologram was built up of mostly static, but it still contained his form and all the contempt hidden within. He opened his eyes, smiled, and said something that sounded smug, though it was drowned out by the constant sound of white noise and static in his vocal up-link. Catherine could pick out a few words, but that was all. The bandit leader didn't look upset in the least, as if Jet's hacking into Diablo's neural network had only been a mild bother. "Ý0Û (aÑñØ† GË† ®Îd Òƒ Mé §ö È@$îl¥!" He declared with a hint of triumph, spacing his hands out from his sides. "Ì Wì|| $hðw ŸÕü wÞà† È|êvÊñ ŸËÁrš Øƒ HÈ|| h@Š †åÜgH† Më!"

Flames erupted and burst into a violent pulsing life in each of Diablo's metal-plated fists. Similarly, the hologram of Ravendor seemed to gather some kind of dark energy in his static-affected hands. It was like a ball of electricity, and as the Maxwell Gang watched the fire and lightning form, it vanished abruptly from Ravendor's hands with an anticlimactic fizzle. What came next made up for it, though. The flames sizzling in Diablo's hands suddenly darkened to a burning blackness, the fire gaining an affinity of shadow. The two different powers had been merged as one. With a sadistic glint in his eye, Ravendor released the dark flames upon Virginia and the unconscious Jet, shaking his head with pity. He hated to shoot two lovebirds in a tree, but…

The fireball touched bitter frosted steel and burst into a rain of harmless little sparks and shadowy smoke, the warmth and darkness immediately drained by contact with an ancient and powerful weapon. Virginia, holding her breath and awaiting her inevitable fate, opened one eye hesitantly and wondered why she had not been killed yet. She saw red. A red coat, to be precise. Her heart leapt with a sudden rush of hope. "Clive?" She breathed, hardly daring to believe that he had woken up. He didn't answer, or recognize his name. Virginia's gaze was drawn to the object he held with both hands, a long and beautifully forged sword that made her shiver whenever she stared into the reflective light of it's blade for too long. Where on earth had Clive gotten a weapon like _that_?

"Virginia…" He said, and his voice sounded slightly different. It had not changed in tone or pitch, but was just… _different_. It sounded surer, and somehow, it was a voice that could be trusted, no matter where it came from. "Try and move Jet away from here. Take him over to Catherine and Kaitlyn. Be careful, make sure you do not jar his injuries." He brought his sword up a little into a more offensive attack position, the move an act of aggression against his new opponent. But even so, and he just couldn't help it, he adjusted his glasses as well. He frowned. "Ravendor, you sure have rubbed your good name in the dirt, haven't you?"

"…À† |ëÅš† Í w@š GÎVËN Å ñámÈ." Ravendor retorted through a haze of static and distortion, folding his arms. He noticed Clive's sword and sneered, forming a new ball of dark flames within Diablo's huge hands. Not too far away, Catherine looked upon this with fear, still amazed that her husband had sprung awake in such a short time, gripping the situation within a second. It was like he was entirely a different person. He had _never_ had reflexes like that before. Ravendor was hiding his anger under a façade of apathy, and the only part of him showing the poison in his soul were his piercing green eyes. "ÑØ |öñGër Å $ñÏþëR âÑ¥mÔrë, Í §ëÈ." He extended his hand, which was only a little more than shapeless programming, some slight binary and programming showing through. "WhÖ árË ¥¤ü ñ0W, Ç|ïvë Wîñš|ë††?"

Once more, his eyes seemed to show no flicker of recognition or remembrance of his name, his eyes, which had once been a cold blue, but was now of a deep mahogany coloring, a mix of ice blue and crimson red. He tightened the grip on his sword, Kuronegaiken.

"I… am the swordsman." He said.


	71. Crossfire Sequence

The swordsman leapt out of the way of Diablo's fist with an amazing form of agility, jumping backwards and landing with incredible grace on one of the boulders that had been dislodged from the ceiling only a little while ago. He shifted his stance for a better grip on the unsure surface and analyzed Diablo from a distance, holding one hand to the frame of his glasses in case it allowed him to see a little bit better. Ravendor was amused by this, laughing a laugh that was drowned out by background static. "§†îll åŠ Ëvã$ÎVË áš Èv£®, M¥ ƒ®ÎËñÐ." He said, pleased. "†H0ÜgH ï HØÞë ýôÛ ¢áñ ÐÖ bˆ†£R †hÀñ †hÀ†!"

"I hope you can put up a fair fight." The swordsman retaliated, matching Ravendor's amusement with a brand of his own. Their words were courteous and formal, but behind them, the emotions backing them were cold and bitter. It was like two snakes trying to out-hiss one another. "The Guardians know that you've never been able to do that before. Do you really wish to fight me? You will lose, Ravendor, golem or no. I am just warning you, first."

"HmÞh… à hÜMÅñ ßêlíÈvë$ HÊ ©ñ ßÉå† mÉ?" Ravendor wondered out loud, unaware of the swordsman's true form and mistaking him for a simple human. "Ï AÐMî† †ha† †Hî§ ÏŠ íñ†érÈŠ†ÏÑG… QÜì†Ê ÎÑ†éRÈ§†íñg…" The bandit leader focussed hard, and fought away Jet's reprogramming for a while, attaining his full holographic shape. It felt better this way, despite not being able to feel his original body in the state he was in. The only thing he could settle on was Diablo and this image. "Vêr¥ wëll. Îƒ ŸØÜ (añ Ðëš†rò¥ †hÎŠ mÈ†al ßØÐŸ, †HÉÑ ¥¤Û màý §þèÁk WÎ†h Më ÐíRÈ©†¥."

"I will be looking forward to that." The demon half-growled, half spat. He had lost his pleasant edge and was now just blunt and irritated. Just talking to Ravendor was pissing him off. The dark-haired man nodded once and bowed gracefully in mid-air, his hologram disappearing as he straightened back up again. The way he carried himself, his air of superiority, it made the swordsman's blood boil. He looked back to his comrades and made a gesture that they should stay away, his expression softening as he addressed his friends. Comforted by their presence, he smiled and felt better. "Please let me handle this. Don't get in the way." He said, winking. "Thank you."

Waiting for a short while, both he and the golem did nothing, sizing up each other's strengths. Then he realized that Ravendor was waiting for _him_ to make a move, allowing the demon to have the first strike. He didn't want to engage in an endless stalemate, so he acted. The swordsman jumped into the air with the grace of a ninja, using part of Boomerang's memories to help him more with better agility. If Diablo was strong, then he had to be fast. The rush of the jump somehow put him in a good mood, a burst of adrenaline kicking into his system.

He alighted on Diablo's right shoulder and smirked, rapping his knuckles against the side of Diablo's head and trying to get an echo. "Hello? Is anybody in there? Ravendor, are you home?" He leapt out of the way when the golem swatted at him and hit his own armor, the swordsman landing on the top of Diablo's head and using it as a stepping stone to reach the machine's other shoulder, effortlessly using his dexterity to leap away from Diablo's attacks. He was taunting him, playing with him, while deep in his mind, the swordsman was performing his own kind of in-depth analysis. He just needed time, he had to buy some more time. In addition, he had to keep the golem's wrath away from the others, and redirect it towards himself. Ravendor was after _him_, anyway.

Falling to one knee as he touched down on the golem's other shoulder, he uttered a playful "Boing!" as he sprung several meters into the air when Diablo tried to hit him once more, landing lightly on the back of the monster's hand. Before he could be forced off or captured, he brought his sword straight down through the thick armor, testing the strength of it's defences. He tensed his muscles and bore down upon the hilt, feeling a moderate amount of resistance before it passed through the metal and embedded itself in the weaker tissues within. Sparks rose from the wound and trailed up the blade, attacking the swordsman's nervous system as soon as it touched his flesh.

He gritted his teeth and yanked the weapon out to cease the attack, while Diablo turned up the heat on it's armor, steam and heat waves rising from it's skin. The swordsman slid his feet back slightly and felt that the soles of his boots were beginning to melt. He couldn't stay up there any longer. He looked up and avoided another attack, intentionally losing his balance and falling off the golem's hand, still drawing on Boomerang's athletic ability to flip himself over in mid-air and land in a crouch, the bottom of his boots smoking and slightly warped. He coughed once, quietly, and stood up, running his gaze down the length of his blade. The end, which was scratched just a little by breaking through Diablo's armor, shimmered and pulsed, the scratches rippling out of existence. Now Kuronegaiken looked absolutely spotless and shined even more in his hands.

"You cannot catch me," He taunted, a glint of mischief in his eye, "You cannot harm me. But, I believe that I may have found a way to harm _you_." He scuffed the back of one of his boots on a flat rock, peeling away the melted rubber. He brandished the sword as Diablo raised both hands in answer to his words, materializing twin orbs of fire that burned and spluttered in the machine's possession. The swordsman stood firm and didn't even flinch as the golem hurled the flames directly at his body, not dodging, and refraining from even shielding his eyes. All he did was close them and exhale a breath, waiting and smiling.

The fire washed over him like an inferno of punishment, but he remembered his long stay in the infernal region, and no longer feared the smoldering torture of incineration. He felt the rise in temperature but not the pain itself, the rushing flames whooshing by like a summer Filgaian breeze. His aura protected him from the attack, triggered by his fire medium and ward. He waited for the flames to die down and stomped out a few lingering sparks himself, the floor under his feet charred and blackened. Diablo seemed to pause, unsure. It did not predict this turn of events at all. The swordsman fanned a little bit of lingering smoke away and nodded, answering a question that had not been spoken. "Yes, I bear an immunity to fire. It is the power of my fire medium, and my connection to the Guardian, Moor Gault. It is unfortunate that this golem you command is also of a fire element, is it not?"

Diablo made a noise that sounded like a growl, he had obviously upset the person residing within the great mass of plated armor. The golem stepped forward and the floor shook, thundering towards the demon in front of him with it's thick metal fingers hooked like claws. The swordsman felt a twinge of anxiety run through his mind as he watched the monster close in on him, the heat increasing every second while Diablo let out an inhuman roar, one that sent shattering vibrations throughout the room. _Good…_ Whispered the demon in his mind, _Get upset. Lose your temper. Come closer, get in range. You were always far too emotional, Ravendor. Sometimes I wonder how you managed to live so long… No more, I will end your life now. Yes… Come closer. I just need… a little distraction…_

The huge machine came to a stop above the demon's body, lacing it's fingers together and raising it's arms above it's head, preparing a crushing hammer-blow that would shatter solid stone with barely any effort at all. On a living body, it would kill within a second. The swordsman raised his head and looked up at Diablo's face, then knelt, like a page waiting to be knighted. His ears focussed on a sound behind him, and he bet his life on a silly chance, trusting somebody that he never would have believed in before…

The resounding clang of lead hitting armor surprised everyone including Diablo, the consciousness within registering that he had been shot and turning the golem's great mass to see the origin of the attack. The swordsman, who had his weapon up and positioned in a protective maneuver, expecting an attack, lowered it after a few moments and stared after Diablo's distraction, letting out a deep breath. He barely expected it, but that attack seemed to signal in his cavalry. It didn't do any damage, but it was distracting the machine enough for the demon to gather his wits and plan out a new method of retaliation. He had one, he just had to get himself and the others ready.

Dario's arms were shaking so badly that he couldn't aim his weapon as well as he needed to, the few rounds he had fired making no mark on the monster within the center of the room. The bandit was near the entranceway, his knees knocking together in intense fright with his teeth chattering and his trigger finger quivering and hysterical. "Die! Go away! Stay away! Just die, already! Dammit, die, die, die!" He emptied the rest of his bullet clip and backed into the wall, falling on his behind. Dropping his now useless pistol, he stared at the golem and felt as though fear itself was going to kill him. He had never _seen_ anything so frightening before.

The swordsman lowered his blade and narrowed his eyes, but he knew a lucky break when he saw one. He turned to the others sharply and barked out an order. "Virginia! Gallows! Catherine! Anybody who can utilize an ARM! Get into a firing squad position and reload your weapons to their maximum capacity! When I give the signal, be prepared to fire all of your rounds precisely at the target! Stay focussed and _do not hesitate!_" The three people standing around Jet reached for their ARMs and did as they were told, having the common sense not to argue with a demon. Virginia reluctantly left Jet's side and unholstered her twin pistols, Coyote was unhooked from Gallows's side, and Catherine picked up the discarded Gungnir from the ground, brushing a bit of dirt off the wood-grained end. They reloaded, but Catherine had to take her hand from Kaitlyn's to do so.

She separated herself from her mother and ran towards Dario, making both Catherine and the swordsman freeze and call out her name at exactly the same time. Kaitlyn came to a halt next to the bearded bandit and turned towards her parents, shaking her head. "I'll be okay! Don't worry about me any more!" She informed them as calmly as possible with a giant golem looming and slowly approaching her, grabbing Dario's shoulder and shaking it. "Mr. Dario! Mr. Dario! Get up, please!" He appeared to snap out of his frozen terror and wildly glanced at the girl, his feet moving of their own accord and shakily pushing himself up, using the wall as a support. Kaitlyn looked at her mother one more time and pointed towards the golem, as a curt reminder. Catherine battled something inside her and finally nodded, getting into position between Virginia and Gallows, raising Gungnir so it could be fired.

__

…Kaitlyn, be careful…The swordsman thought as he watched the girl take a grip of Dario's wrist and led him towards the others, like a shepherd guiding one of their lost sheep. But, she seemed to know what she was doing, and didn't look afraid anymore. She didn't fear Diablo, who had paused to watch Kaitlyn take Dario away. Ravendor wouldn't hurt her, either. Ironically, of everyone stuck within the ruin, Kaitlyn was the safest of them all. At least he had _that_ to rely on. Right now, all the demon needed to focus on was the monster in front of him and the firing squad behind him.

__

I have to break through and deal damage at the same time. I only have one shot at this attack, and I cannot cut through the armor and injure him at the same time. No, I will drop his defenses while… the others… yes, yes… that shall indeed work!

"Ravendor!" The swordsman called out in the loudest and most forceful voice he owned, echoing a few times in the wide expanse of the chamber around him. The golem half turned towards him, paused in some kind of calculation, and then made the demon the center of his attention once more, roaring in pure primal rage. The swordsman felt his ears ring from the sound and endured it until it faded, loosening his body and taking up a more offensive attack stance. "I will not let you puppeteer that golem any longer! It has an AI! It lives! You have violated it's soul, threatened, kidnapped, hurt… I will allow this no longer! En Guarde!"

He broke into a run, experiencing the thud of his heart in his chest try and fall in sync with his footsteps, his breath catching in his throat. He judged distance like a pole-vaulter, reaching a point and coiling his leg muscles, thinking and trying to set his mind back into the morning, where he had handled Todd's weapon and rediscovered his lost sword art. The dark purplish colouring of his eyes bore a few slight specks of red in them as he built force in his sword-arm and propelled himself towards Diablo's stomach, praying that his attack had not failed. Wood was one thing, but ancient metal…

__

I must do this **right**!

"Shadow Boomerang Maximum!"

He angled himself in the air and hit Diablo's stomach feet-first, out pacing gravity and throwing himself towards the golem's left arm like a ball in a pinball machine. He put pressure on the limb and made a flying leap from arm to arm, holding Kuronegaiken out at a right angle to his hand and fiercely digging the blade into the metal-plated front as he moved. The effect was a long gaping wound opened up across the machine's stomach while the swordsman lowered the point of his target landing a bit and caught Diablo's left arm like an acrobat catching a horizontal pole, swinging himself down towards the ground. He landed, felt his body protest to the insanely swift move he had performed, and he fell flat on his stomach, letting out a lungful of breath.

The demon pushed himself up on shaking arms, unaware if he had even made a scratch or not. He rolled to one side and saw Diablo hold a hand to a huge gash on it's front, while within the wound, faint outlines of cables and it's inner workings were revealed to the world. It's weak spot. The swordsman wanted to get up and strike a commandeering stance, raise his sword and shout, but all he settled for was falling onto his back and coughing, pointing weakly to the monster. "Use your gatling attack now! Fire right into the wound! _Hold nothing back!_"

He was staring at the ceiling when he heard the sound of gunfire suddenly ring through the cavern, unmoving, just keeping his gaze on the darkened roof above him. He smelt the gunpowder in the air and clenched his fists together as a long deep tortured moan cut through his mind like a knife, Diablo's voice, and abstractly, Ravendor's as well. They were both in pain, and though he knew that he should not care a whit about the dark-haired man anymore, he somehow did. It was disturbing. He frowned and rolled over, finding himself lying on top of his frozen blade. Kuronegaiken did not make a very comfortable mattress.

Catherine yanked out the used-up clip from Gungnir's underbelly and took a moment of time to wipe the tears from her face that refused to stay hidden, dropping the discarded magazine and procuring a new one from a pocket of her dress. She had come prepared. Snapping it into place, she resumed her assault on Diablo's body, taking the attack in waves with the other two so that while one of them was reloading, at least two more were coving their backs and keeping the flow of bullets consistent. Discarded shells littered the floor and echoed their light tinkling sounds around the room, adding a faint undertone to Diablo's long wounded cry.

The golem stumbled and crashed into the wall, it's cables and wiring severed by the bullet rain entering it's fragile inner system. Dust was thrown into the air as the stone was pushed away, the great crimson machine now occupying a small part of the wall, miraculously not destroying it. Twitching with arcs of electricity flaring into life and dying, the soft lights of machinery peeking though the long wound dulling and losing their electricity, the charge bleeding out of the body and dissipating into the ether. Diablo finally fell silent, and the gunfire came to an eventual halt.

Gungnir slipped from Catherine's hands and she stumbled like a zombie over to Kaitlyn, who was sitting next to Dario, the bandit's eyes a little glazed over from denial of his current environment. A mind can only take so much before it shuts down and heads towards self-deception. Dario had reached his limit a long while ago. The ex-drifter fell to her knees and hugged her daughter, though she could not find the strength or the desire to cry anymore. It felt like the reservoir in her soul had at last dried up. Kaitlyn sniffed. "You got him… You got him…" She whispered, understanding what had happened a little too well for comfort.

The swordsman nearby felt something uncomfortable sink within his body. _…We got him… _He mimicked in his mind.

Gallows checked his pockets. "Just in time, too," He remarked, "Those were my last few bullets. I thought that bastard would never die." He patted Virginia on the back, who was looking at her smoking pistols with silence. Her clips were empty as well. The demon got up and stumbled over to the others, leaning on his sword and using it slightly like a crutch. He had dirt in his fur and hair, but was wearing a tired smile, hoping that it would set the minds of the others at ease. He paused when he came to Jet's untouched body and embedded the end of his blade into the ground, crouching and placing the back of his hand against the boy's pale face. Gallows watched him do this, a sharp stab of alarm racing through his mind when he took a closer look at the boy's body. His lips had turned blue.

Jet had stopped breathing.

†††

Virginia pulled Jet's head into her lap and carefully wiped the blood from the corner of the boy's mouth, brushing Jet's hair away from his eyes. Gallows, kneeling and taking Jet's pulse again, felt a huge drop in the pressure of the blood that his heart was pumping to his bruised and wounded limbs. He was losing his pulse. Jet was dying. The Baskar priest gritted his teeth and cast another heal spell over the android's body, though the arcana could do no more than what had already been done. The sparkles of magic settled into the android's body, and then faded away, barely easing Jet's suffering. Swearing under his breath, Gallows clenched his fists and looked away.

And then he felt a hand plant itself in the gap between both his shoulder blades, pressing down and then glowing with it's own kind of signature aura. The swordsman knelt behind him, closing his eyes while extending his arm. He spoke. "You can still heal him, Gallows." He said while spacing his fingers, the glow of his aura spreading up his arm. "I will lend you my power. Take it, and try again." The swordsman grunted and activated one of his more special mediums, waiting for the rush of the spell, and the osmosis that would follow soon after. "Life Drain… Esoteric… Arcana… Retraction."

Energy was sucked out of the swordsman's body ferociously, mercilessly, ripped from one aura and transferred like a lifeline through his arm into Gallows's body. The priest held his breath as a wave of intense power washed through him like a tide of strength and vitality, settling into his veins and igniting his blood on fire. The source of his magic, the arcane reservoir itself fed off the raw power and grew, while behind him, the swordsman wheezed and fell to the floor, weakened and drained. Yet still, he was smiling as this happened, Kuronegaiken dulling and weakening with him. He caught the look Gallows gave him and shook his head quietly, talking like he had a sore throat. "Do not worry about it, this is my repayment for stealing your energy at Westwood Station. Go on. Treat Jet again."

Not questioning anything that might give Jet a chance, he held out his hands and tried again, whispering words that would trigger the spell. Gallows wordlessly remarked on the insanely large flow of power coursing through his body, this could be no less than a borrowed demon's strength, he decided. It was explosive, yet, somehow, it filled him with a kind of sadness, receiving an imprint of the two souls sacrificed to make up the new demon's aura. One of them felt hauntingly familiar, while the other was foreign and strangely sinister. Involuntarily, Gallows shivered.

"Critical heal!"

The energy within was expelled by the advanced arcana, and the silver-haired android's body was suddenly engulfed by a pure shining light, bright enough to force the eyes of all around him closed by it's intensity. Jet was pulled upright by an invisible force, absorbing the curative light through his skin and filling his weakened aura to it's maximum capacity. From the midst of the light, he opened his pale lavender eyes, staring skywards had the ceiling not been in the way, letting out a breath of stale air. A crawling and discomforting feeling in the midst of his ribcage was his snapped bones knitting together and holding firm, while the inner tissues of his body regenerated and reached good health. Jet could feel a warmth spread through every fiber of his being as the outward light sunk into his chest, fading and making him stronger. Overwhelmed, he leant back into what he later found out to be Virginia's lap, reaching the land of consciousness once more.

She gasped and then burst into tears, the impact of Jet's recovery finally settling into her mind. The youth blinked dully, letting out a small cough and touching the sleeve of Virginia's dress and wrist gently, still not all there, but fairly coherent of his surroundings. "Look… I said… don't be… worried. I'm fine… just… fine… Only a little tired… is all…" He tried to smile, and made a pretty good attempt at it, but this only made Virginia cry harder. Jet half-closed his eyes and smiled, there was nothing he could do to shut her up. If she needed to cry, then he wasn't going to stop her. He felt too weak to even try.

The swordsman was shaking off Catherine's offering to help him up, getting onto two feet under his own power. Picking up Kuronegaiken and leaning on the weapon slightly, he waited for his healing factor to replenish the energy he had lost, a lukewarm series of waves cascading up his body recharging his lost energy stores. He took some nice deep breaths, and then felt like himself once more. He raised his weapon slightly, and slotted the blade into the space in the small belt around the waist of his coat. The spiked pommel caught on the fabric and held it there just as well as a sheath. Looking at Catherine and Kaitlyn, he smiled, stepping backwards and away.

He chuckled. "I'm back." He said, fixing everyone present with a benevolent gaze. Without notice, his right hand strayed to rest upon the handle of his blade, and he adjusted his glasses, then brushing some of his grass green hair out of his eyes. "Thank you. You protected me when I couldn't protect myself. I owe you more than I could ever repay. Virginia, Jet, Gallows. Catherine and Kaitlyn. Thanks." But then, something uncertain and almost cold settled around the swordsman's demeanor, so that his smile appeared twisted and it's warmth mocking, while his mahogany colored eyes gleamed with hidden intent. "But…" He continued, taking another step back. "It is not over yet. Jet Enduro, stand up."

Jet heard him and struggled to stand, having to heavily rely on Virginia for the support. Gallows also stood and leant the boy his shoulder, so he could lean on them both. The swordsman faced those three, cutting Catherine and Kaitlyn out of his interest. He rapped his fingers on the grip of Kuronegaiken, raising one hand to his chin. Catherine noted the expression being hidden behind her husband's eyes, it was the glint of a madman not quite sure if he should be kind or not, or if he should carry out his plans. The swordsman almost seemed to be having a conversation within his soul, trying to determine his decision. "Good." He almost purred, pulling Kuronegaiken an inch out of it's confinement, so a small shimmer of blue caught their eye. "Just like before. Just like I remember it. My friends, will you do me a huge favor and humor this old demon here, please?"

Virginia was confused, and didn't mind openly showing it. "Clive?" She asked, holding onto Jet carefully like he was made of fragile glass. "What's wrong? Are you okay? A favor, what do you want us to do?" This was beginning to remind her of his episode on the train, where he had tried to wind Jet's arm off in a deadly arm-lock. He was wearing that same bemused, condescendingly pleasant smile. Catherine, close by, recognized it as a subtle mimicry of Ravendor that he had unconsciously picked up through all those years of friendship, and was unaware that he still used it, even then. Had this situation been less serious, Catherine would have smiled.

The swordsman motioned to the trio of drifters standing in front of him, pulling Kuronegaiken out of it's place and pointing with that, which made Virginia and the others very uneasy. Asides from wondering exactly _where_ he had gotten the weapon, she really wanted to know precisely _what_ he was going to do with it. He flicked his wrist a little, three times, to accentuate his next statement. "Three humans, just like the three I fought, so long ago. A girl, a construct, the artificial being, and a man with long brown hair. Yes, just like this." He agreed with himself, and then nodded. "How fortunate it is for me to see this image reproduced after two thousand years of waiting, of anticipation. I am familiar with this. Virginia, Cecilia. Jet, Rudy. Gallows, Jack."

Jet didn't have any idea on what he was going on about, and frowned, shrugging off the support Virginia and Gallows were giving him to stand up by himself. He was feeling better now, physically, but on the inside, he was fraught with confusion and an increasingly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "…You ain't Clive, are you?" He asked gruffly, involuntarily shooting a glance at Catherine who watched them not too far away. Her face was totally neutral, and analyzing. The swordsman smiled and then shook his head, raising a hand as if to say 'no'.

"It's complicated." He admitted, holding the edge of his glasses frame with two fingers as he thought on how to explain. "I am me. That is all I have to know. For you, who I am is entirely up to you to decide. Please understand me, I have been waiting so long for this. I want you to fight me, now, and hold nothing back. I am asking you three humans for a rematch, to make up for the battle I lost so many years ago. Jet, please understand, this is just something I have to do. And…" His voice gained an almost evil tone. "It is something I was _meant_ to do…"

Gallows recoiled out of expectancy of Virginia's impending outburst, shrinking away into his center of gravity and squeezing his eyes shut. The drifter leader cut a swath in the air with her hand, the other one clenched into a fist. "Clive, are you crazy?! You want us to fight you?! No! No way! Not again! We're your friends, remember? All we want to do is help you. Calm down, we killed Diablo, and we have Kaitlyn and Jet is better. All we have to do is stop Ravendor and we will be finished. Don't you want to-"

Virginia felt the tip of Kuronegaiken lightly pierce the thin skin of her neck, drawing a tiny little bead of blood that was absorbed by the blade and converted into inner power. Her arms fell to her sides, though her fingers were spaced in agitation and alarm. Jet was caught between acting and standing still, knowing that if he made a brash move, Virginia could be killed. He didn't want to take that chance. The boy looked towards the swordsman, who held a guarded expression, which became a smarmy smirk. His aura was cold, like sub-zero temperatures.

But the scariest thing was, they could tell that he, who they believed to be Clive, was doing this of his own free will. "If you really are my friends… If you really do wish to help me… Then banish this shadow that lurks in my heart!" He narrowed his eyes and bared his fangs, tightening the grip on his sword and pulling it away, getting into his basic attack position. Kuronegaiken glinted happily, anticipating bloodshed. Jet grabbed his gun. Virginia silently shed a tear. Gallows just stood there, dumbfounded. The demon swordsman's voice sent shivers down all of their spines, and Catherine backed away up against the wall, taking Kaitlyn with her.

He stepped forward. "Quench my loneliness, once and for all!"


	72. He Who Holds The Word Of God

Diablo's AI, the simple, innocent life that it had been given thousands of years ago, cringed under the searing pain and shrunk back into the furthest reaches of it's CPU, whimpering, trembling, unaware of the wounds inflicted upon it, unable to understand, only aware of a hurt that it had borne under another's influence. It was scared and afraid, searching the recesses of it's soul for a quiet place to curl up and go back to sleep, turning it's body into an empty shell, a discarded form. There, it would continue it's ancient rest.

The momentum of the golem's body into the walls caused machines to feel the impact and overload in a burst of screeching sparks and rattling components, cables severing violently from the body of the bandit leader above the control seat, whipping around like riled hissing snakes. Many computer screens dulled and cracked, breaking into shards of useless glass. Only the main screen seemed to survive the impact and still function, one great crack splitting the screen nearly in two while the monitor fought to keep itself clear from static and a loss of power. It was Ravendor's life support system, damaged, and slowly failing. Words were typed of their own accord across the screen, like a program in the midst of some kind of downloading process.

**__**

Serial Experiment Hyades Downloading Process

- Project Dark Angel -

-- Human : 03% [… 02% … 01% … 0%]  
-- Raven : 20% [STABLE]  
-- Demon : 77% [… 78% … 79% … 80%]

__

Incubation -- 97% [… 98% … 99% … 100%]

- 100% -

-- _Incubation Complete.  
_-- _Serial ID #001 Activate._

There was a twitch, a soft sound of breathing being resumed, and a feather fluttering to the ground.

Ravendor opened his eyes and groaned, weakly and groggily pulling on the wires in his wrist and arm, his stomach burning, hurt, his mind connected straight to Diablo's nervous system. He felt different, a little tingly all over, and that he no longer fit into the shape he was used to inhabiting. He noticed how darkened the room had become and the fragments of the terminals strewn across the floor, mixed with broken glass and thin masses of wiring. Still half aware of Diablo's almost non-operational mainframe, he gave it an order with a softer, quieter voice, as if he didn't wish to hear himself speak. "Diablo, release me." He said, pulling again on his life support system.

It hurt mildly as the cables removed themselves from his body, two or three at a time, until his weight could not be supported anymore and he fell, thrown to the ground in front of the golem's control chair. Ravendor waited for a few moments for hits wits to gather and sat up, prying the last few connected cables stuck to him out of his body. He felt much lighter than before, which could have been chalked up to mere light-headedness, except that when he raised his arm he felt none of the usual resistance at all. His blood didn't hurt anymore, his panakeia had been purified and now worked perfectly.

Ravendor ran a clawed hand lightly across his front, trailing a ghostly burn of pain where Diablo's armour had been cut through and filled with bullets, the bandit leader experiencing a mentally linked effect on his own, frailer body. His own version of the demon healing factor kicked in and the invisible wound sealed up on the subconscious level in his mind, while the small wounds scattered all over his body from the violating entry of Diablo's wires and cables slowly disappeared, leaving not a single mark behind. Traces of his panakeia were quietly dripping off the ends of the cables severed from his body, crackling a little with transferred electricity. Ravendor rubbed his neck carefully and then stared down at both his hands, his expression unwavering.

Now both his hands were long, dark and thin demon claws, the black obsidian armor plating running up his arms and then ending at the joint of his elbow, supplying him with both a hand and arm guard. His right claw still bore the dirtied bandages that he had retained from earlier, stained with Romero's blood. Ravendor clenched his claw into a fist and the bindings burst, fluttering uselessly to the ground. He touched the back of his newly formed claw to his cheek and felt no warmth within his body. He was cold, as cold as a synthetic demon ever could be.

He was wearing his white jacket only through the sleeves, spattered a little in panakeia that had turned a thick deep black. It could no longer fit over his shoulders because of the great pair of shadowy wings that had unfurled and extended from both his shoulder blades, dampened a little with his blood and slightly twitching, unused to exposure to the air. Slowly, taking far more time that he actually needed, Ravendor removed one arm from his jacket sleeve and turned the garment over, his face neutral, yet somehow thoughtful. He dug one claw into the leather and dragged it downwards, parting the very thick fabric and creating a long slit down the shoulder, judging it's length, and then making a similar cut on the other side. There, it was done, and he stood, experiencing pain from the first movements of his newborn wings.

__

…I am an abomination, a monster, one who no longer can call themselves human. I have lived like this, in this shape, or hiding in another for **so** long, it almost makes time blur… and it's hard to recall… when I didn't have to look in the mirror and see nothing but a lie…and hate myself for it…

Blood trickled off the ends of the longer pinions by his sides, dripping into a small puddle near his feet. He slipped the jacket back on again and fit the wings through the crudely fashioned wing-slits, having just enough room and staining the leather a little with his blood. Ravendor pulled his jacket more tightly around him, feeling unclean. He knew what he looked like without needing a mirror, an utterly distorted version of himself with sin-stained black wings, horrible clawed talons, a long thin armor-plated serpentine-like tail which only got in the way, and branded runic tattoos running down his arms, across his chest, and even violating in smaller writing upon the space of his left cheek. There was no going back now. He was Ravendor Begucci, Project Dark Angel.

The pain that he had felt for days on end had finally gone. It only existed when he tried to hide himself in another form, and he was glad to pay that price for a chance to continue to be who he was, without the isolation, the loneliness, or the shame of living in the shadows as the last demon alive. The pain had comforted him sometimes, because it reminded him of all the even greater mental hurt that he had left behind. Ravendor would rather live as a human in agony, than exist as a demon without discomfort. But that choice had been robbed from him, and through the slow incubation process inside Diablo, he was himself again. Now he had the power, the strength, and the ability to make Clive suffer.

The jacket fit better now, but he felt himself back in the clutches of depression that was synonymous with his true form. Ravendor sighed and touched a hand to the small cross hanging on a chain around his neck, wondering what would come next. Diablo was dead, and he had been defeated. The charm felt a little warm, compared to himself, and Ravendor smiled, understanding the irony. He must have been the only demon in existence who could stand to wear a silver cross. What more could he do now, except, destroy Clive personally… Yes, that was the reason for his regression. He never intended to kill Clive with Diablo at all, it had only been a method of buying time, so he could go back to the way he was, and kill the green-haired man with his own two hands.

He knelt and untangled all the discarded wires that had bound his legs to the spot, cutting them away and stepping out of the mass of complicated computer components. Ravendor stretched out all the inactive tension that had built up from the time spent out of his body and in the computer system, beating his wings once to shake all the wet blood out from the damp feathers. He couldn't lie, it felt so much _better_ to exist without feeling pain, it was a good change, and his blood didn't hurt anymore. If it were not for his altered blood and the monstrous increase of power, he felt just like he did back in the old days, when he was neither demonized nor cursed.

"I have built up towards this… I have waited for this… Yes, I will rend you limb from limb. I will make Catherine a widow and force you to leave Kaitlyn fatherless. You forced me to continue living in this godsforsaken world, you took Catherine away from me, you left me to die in this disgusting ruin, and from the cause of that… I… I became who I am now. It is all your fault. You turned me into a monster, and I don't think you even gave much of a damn about it. So you must die. It is my last desire. I was ordered to make you all die-" He paused, wondering where the fragment of his last sentence had come from. He certainly hadn't meant to say it, and he didn't know where it had come from. Ordered? He hadn't been given any orders since… Malik's voice…

__

"Project Dark Angel, can you hear me? Yes, it is me. Listen. Do as I say. Your soul belongs to **me** now, I am no less than your master. Every breath that you breathe and every heartbeat you take is for **me**, no other. Now, let me ask you; **whom do you serve?**"

"…"

Some words had been spoken, and he had been under intense pain, agonizing, brutal, a hurt that could not be described by mere words alone. It his memory, he could never remember hearing himself scream so loud, so full of mindless confusion and fear. He had no idea where he was, _who_ he was, only that torture, which lasted long enough for him to cry out and shout _anything_ that Malik desired to be said. Yes, long ago, he had feared. It was _so_ long ago, but apart from his childhood, he could never remember ever being so afraid. _"Gias hurts, doesn't it? Remember that at any time, I can give you another treatment of **that**, if you desire. Now tell me, Project Dark Angel. **Whom do you serve?**"_

"…I…serve…you…my…lord…Malik…Only…you…nobody…else…Only…you…" He had hated Malik so badly for warping him into the mismatched demon that he had become today, for all the torture, the horrors he had lived in when he was so much younger and naïve, just a fledgling drifter who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he had hated Clive the worst, for setting him in that wrong place at the very beginning.

"No, I will not be controlled anymore…" He said to himself convincingly, "No longer." Ravendor stepped over to the faintly glowing terminals and switched each of them off one by one, shutting Diablo down indefinitely. Now the golem could at last get the unbroken sleep that it had desired. The bandit leader caught the slight reflection of his face on the flickering cracked screen and narrowed his eyes, his emotional reaction causing the runes on his face to glimmer for a few quick moments before calming down. His eyes, which had once been a deep emerald green, now seemed to bear an eerie inner glow, mysterious, yet poisonous. Growling, Ravendor put his fist through the computer screen and felt the electricity die around him as he removed it, bearing longer, lengthened, but still vestigial demon fangs.

"I am not a puppet. I am not a doll. I am me, not one of your playthings, Malik! Not anymore! I won't let you touch me anymore!" He started to laugh, at first, it was out of sheer relief and a little shaky, but he then unhinged himself in a strange kind of mentality and it became louder and less sane, laughing about something that hurt deeply, which made the sound only scarier and creepy. "Malik, Father and Clive, I will not let any of you hurt me anymore… I'll kill everything… It will all go away if I just kill everything… And then… then maybe… the nightmares will finally stop… and I can rest." He smiled at his words and nodded, agreeing with himself. "The purpose of my life is to destroy. I will destroy. I will kill them all. Everybody… who will hurt me… and it will go away. My name is-"

__

"…Melody, why am I called Project Dark Angel? …No, do not look at me like that, I am referring to the significance of the name. Apart from the obvious reasons, why does the council dub me an angel? Is it because I have died once before? I am sorry to say that I do not think I can live up to that status, at least not in the way that I believe you wish me to."

"This organization wishes to spread the words of God. Those words are evolution through a selective factor, as the gods have meant to impart upon mankind. Angels are the messengers of God, and spread His word and will. Similarly, you were engineered to be the representative of this council, and like an angel of God, you shall impart to others our will."

"I see. I have no choice in this…do I? Nor can you reverse what you have already done to me. …Not surprising, though. My body does not belong to myself anymore. I exist only to serve this council. Hahahaha… I have no free will at all. I shall do as you command. What is this 'Word' that you wish for me to spread to others?"

"When the time is right, you, your design type, will replace mankind. Yes, we intend to substitute the human body itself with a demon body. You are our prototype. Perhaps someday, even the council ourselves will bear a shape such as yours. Evolution is the purpose of a life, to set forward the willing, and annihilate the weak. Should the need arise, it will be **you**, Ravendor, who will purge humanity from this planet. The dark angel is also the death angel, the reaper of souls, the destroyer."

"My name is Ravendor Begucci, and I am the dark angel that shall send you straight to Hell, Clive Winslett!" He flared his wings and roared, but instead of a regular human yell, it came out all wrong, a mix between a demon's growl and the cry of a deadly bird of prey. The darkness of shadow crept up his body and covered him in a coating of pure night, whereupon his physical shape shifted into wisps of black smoke and faded. Feathers floated to the ground from where he stood, and lying in the debris, discarded, was a slight reflective twinkle of his small silver cross. Kaitlyn's cross. Seraph's cross.

In his insanity, Ravendor didn't even notice it's absence.


	73. Perfect Prey

Firstly, before the fight could even begin, the swordsman was explicit on the fact that it be totally within the proper rules of swordsmanship. They stood a few yards away from each other, the demon on one end, while Virginia, Jet and Gallows occupied the other end. Diablo lay dead near them and was like a monument to the duel, still sparking and steaming a little. Catherine, Kaitlyn and Dario were the spectators to the event, their backs pressed up against the wall and unable to interfere. The swordsman had threatened them with death if they did. None of them wanted to see if he was bluffing.

He held up his weapon and allowed the very weak light to illuminate it's edges, drawing the attention of the three humans towards it. "I can't use Gungnir anymore, but I think this will suffice. Please meet my blade, everybody. Her name is Kuronegaiken, and in the human tongue, it means the 'Dark Desire Blade'. Her edge will kiss your flesh, and you shall die." He planted the tip of the sword in the ground in front of him and leant on it like a post, lacing his fingers together and setting it upon the butt of the weapon. "Now, my dear, _dear_ friends, here is my proposition. You may attack me one at a time, or you can all team up and try your luck. The ferocity of my attacks will differ depending on the choice you will have made. This will be a most interesting hunt, humans, my perfect prey."

Jet and Gallows turned to their leader. They both seemed incredulous over their next battle. Were they really going to _fight_ Clive? It was just too crazy to believe. Virginia hung her head and was unable to say anything, overwhelmed by the intense changes in her friend over such a short period of time. Gallows felt the confusion in her aura, and knew that he had to set it straight again. His blood was boiling to sort out this mess and go home to where things made better sense. If he had to bruise Clive up a little to do so, well, the demon had it coming to him, after they way he had acted. "Fight me!" The Baskar declared loudly, clenching one fist. "I'll go first! I'll wipe that smug grin off your face, Clivy-boy, you'll thank me for it later, okay?"

Sliding his eyes closed, the swordsman repeated an old piece of demon literature, one he had not heard being spoken aloud for thousands of years. He felt it needed saying now, and nodded, agreeing to Gallows's proposal. "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law." He intoned, pulling his weapon out of the ground. "I am not going to go easy on you, Gallows. I just need to tell you that." The priest snorted and moved away from his companions, where Virginia shot him a look of worry. He waved her aside, muttering something about being 'well prepared', and that he had a 'plan'. The amazing this was, he actually did.

"…A technique used to offer a moment of vulnerability over the lycan, in order to quell it's ferocious wrath. A deadening of the nerves can be created by applying pressure onto the creature's tail, according to Baskar pressure point principles."

He thanked the Guardians many times over in his head for the gift of a little brother who had helped him to find that gem of knowledge in a dirt mine of boring agricultural reports. He knew that without Shane, he would have wound up nowhere fast. Gallows wasn't sure if the trick would work now that the demon was back inside a nearly human silhouette, but he still had a tail, so it should still work, right? It was worth a shot, at least. He cracked his knuckles and stretched the tension out of his arms, curling his hands into fists. The swordsman's tail was swishing back and forth a little in anticipation of the fight, and if he could just stand on it or something, things might work out. "I'm ready," He said, "Gimme your best shot."

When the demon attacked, Gallows was actually prepared and the first sword strike was caught mid-way in a distortion arcana, the solidity of the air in front of him hindering a proper attack. Growling, the swordsman yanked the weapon out and tried for an overhead sweep, intending to take Gallows's head clean off his shoulders. Ducking behind the distortion, the priest waited for the attack to be executed and then rammed his shoulder straight into the demon's chest, throwing all his weight into the charge and hoping to disarm him from his weapon. Failing in this, Gallows took advantage of the demon being bent over and gasping for air, holding his hands together and using a hammerblow upon his enemies back, trying to knock the green-haired man onto the ground. Then, he raised his foot and tried to bring it down upon the demon's tail, wanting to hear him cry out and give up, defeated.

Thinking fast, the swordsman grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in Gallows's face, blinding the priest momentarily as he cried out and brushed the irritation from his eyes, staggering backwards and cursing a blue streak. The demon jumped to his feet and reclaimed the sword that he had dropped beforehand, conjuring up a plan of his own within his honed and tactical mind. Gallows watched through blurry vision as the swordsman coiled his legs and leapt inhumanly high into the air, gripping his sword with both hands and pointing it downwards towards him, grinning with manic glee and a frightening kind of resolve. Wisps of icy fog began to hiss off the sides of the blade, which formed ghostly hands with long gnarled fingers, grasping, reaching out, and greedily possessing. They cried out to reach Gallows's soul, to fill it with it's cold and unfeeling influence, to eat away at the priest's last source of life.

"Zero Count Execution!" Cried the demon as he descended upon the priest, slamming the end of his weapon into the ground, just an inch away from Gallows's two feet. In the way he landed, the swordsman was now kneeling in front of the Baskar, his eyes closed, channeling the true danger of this attack. Gallows tried to move away but found himself rooted to the spot, his legs as rigid as a post, held there without any external indication. He moaned as the ghostly hands crept out of the blade and touched his warm, living flesh, like a woman's gentle caress, but with a cold and lacking aura. All at once, the hands clenched and forced themselves into Gallows's body, grabbing the healthy aura within his body and wringing out his soul.

Something valuable and precious within his body screamed and choked under the vicious pressure, garroted, strangled, squeezed to death. The demon whispered something ancient and arcane under his breath and Gallows finally went limp, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head, letting out one last sigh. The swordsman stood and tore the end of his blade out of the ground, at last revealing that it had been piercing Gallows's shadow, the mirror into his soul. As soon as Kuronegaiken was retracted, the hold on Gallows's body disappeared and his legs wobbled like jelly for a few choice seconds, before his body keeled over and hit the ground in an unconscious heap. The demon set his boot upon Gallows's side and rolled him over, onto his back. The priest was still breathing, but definitely out of it.

"That was mildly amusing…" He announced to the others warmly and casually, holding up his sword and drawing attention to the blade. "And look, I did not squeeze a drop of blood out of him. I may have to make up for that in the next round, shouldn't I? Who wishes to have a try next? Cecilia? Or Rudy? I am waiting." He smiled when the other two showed confusion over the names he had called them, but it made him feel better to think that with a rematch like this, it would redeem himself of the losses he had endured so many years ago. One down, and two more to go.

Jet glowered and pushed Virginia out of the way, stepping up to the plate. The drifter leader was a little surprised at first, but took this chance to rush to Gallows's aid, pausing to glance appraisingly at the swordsman's face, standing over the priest's hurt body. He smiled in a friendly way that was reminiscent of the old Clive Winslett, and obligingly moved away from the both of them, giving the girl the space that she needed. It was eerie how the demon seemed to be _so_ much like his old self, but at the same time, extremely different. The rest of the Maxwell gang could have sworn that he was doing this act of violence and sadism of his own free will, with a smile, and the soul of their sniper friend. They could sense within their mediums and their hearts that he _wanted_ to do this, and was having plenty of _fun_ along the way.

"I don't know why the hell you really wanna do this…" He began bluntly and darkly, holding his Airget-lamh carefully with his free hand, his lavender eyes filled with hostility and resentment. "Or what you're hopin' to achieve by slaughtering your friends. But lemme get this straight with you, Clive, if you're not with us then you're against us, and I beat the shit outta my enemies without lookin' back. I'm gonna make you pay for this, you bastard!" He finished with a snarl, brandishing his weapon. "I ain't gonna let you get through me, you ain't gonna get to Virginia!"

"Then it seems that I am against you." He reasoned calmly, his sword arm stiff and being held slightly by his side. He was ready to strike. "And as a favor to me, I ask that you destroy your enemy as brutally as you possibly can. I wish for a fair fight, I thirst for blood and conflict. I exist for the termination of others. That is my job, and I am happy to perform it. I am the Executioner. Don't worry, Jet. This will all be over soon, I promise you. Have at thee!"

Surprisingly, Jet struck first with the butt of his ARM and actually managed to land a hit on him, smashing the back of his forearm as he rose it for a block, hearing the sickening sound as the metal and flesh connected with each other, empathetically feeling the swordsman's pain. It must have really hurt. But, his expression did not change in the slightest and he lashed out with his blade, tearing a long gash in Jet's black shirt, but missing the skin underneath. The boy was fortunate, next time he might not be so lucky. Growling, Jet moved back and sought a blank peace within his mind, focussing his aura within his center, which violently exploded in his body and threw his reflexes into overdrive, activating his accelerator technique.

Far upon the opposing wall, in extreme silence and shade, a wayward shadow detached itself from it's source and grew into a familiar silhouette, it's existence just a lack of light born of dark malice. It leapt into the air and glided across the room on hidden invisible wings, sliding across the wall and melting into the shadows of Catherine and Kaitlyn, where it bided it's time and waited. Catherine felt a cold wind rush by her and shivered, wondering where it had come from. Kaitlyn was watching her father fight with a mesmerized awe, her little heart confused to why he was attacking Virginia and the others, but amazed at the way he was fighting, just like the ancient swordsmen that littered her huge collection of books.

The swipe of the blade near his face ruffled his hair for a moment and a few silver strands sailed to the ground, demonstrating the precision of the swordsman's moves. He struck again and Jet just narrowly dodged the edge of the blade and felt blood being drawn and dribbling down his cheek, a small gash appearing and beginning to sting. The swordsman bared a nearly insane grin at the drawing of blood and thrust out with a deep stab, which he missed, but really only seemed to be made for the thrill of the moment and not as a proper attack. Jet's accelerated reflexes were the only thing that appeared to be keeping him alive in the duel, but each time the swordsman he managed to successfully evade an attack, the swordsman grew just a little bit faster in order to keep up. The demon looked like he was moving against the laws of motion as the movements of Kuronegaiken's blade began to blur, yet all the time they barely grazed Jet's skin, and hardly even hurt him at all. The way the blade cut him offered up no pain, though he could feel the opening of his wounds and the life-fluid that flowed forth.

The android felt himself begin to tire out and made a decision that he couldn't just remain on the defensive forever, he had to stand up and attack. Healed by the artificially enhanced heal arcana that Gallows had cast, Jet tore his previously dislocated arm out of it's sling and strained his body to perform _another_ accelerator move, feeling time seem to slow around him and the screaming protest of his body to function outside the proper framework of endurance. It sped up his metabolic rate and every individual sensation hit him at once, like a downpour of external impulses. The blood pouring out of his wounds, the slight rustle of an echoing breeze within the cave, and the breathing of himself, his enemy, and all the others watching them with a horrible kind of fascination.

The blade of the sword was bearing down upon him in a kind of slow motion, though it visibly tore the air as it moved. Jet's hands came up and caught the blade between his two palms, his hands stinging as the frozen temperatures entered his body and slowly crept up his arms, gnawing away at Jet's body heat and aural energy. The swordsman looked surprised for about half a second and then chuckled, taking his strength out of the sword and then letting his arms go a little limp. "You are fast, Jet." He said in an amused manner. "I keep forgetting that you are not a regular human being. No matter. It does not matter…" He wrenched the sword away from Jet and ran his hand along the flat side of his blade, momentarily closing his eyes. "The blade is not the only part of a sword that can injure, my friend."

From his experience of fighting beside Jet countless times in their travels, the demon judged the length of the boy's accelerator and waited for it to power down and leave Jet at a mediocre speed. The moment his sentence came to an end, so too did the technique and the swordsman moved like lightning, with a speed that the person once known as Clive would have never even _dreamed_ of having. He was suddenly standing behind Jet with his sword raised high, not held in an imminent slicing motion, but in a different manner, like a thug about to club an unsuspecting dupe in the street. Remembering the exact spot on the back of the head where Gallows had struck him a few days ago on Westwood station, he mimicked the move and brought the butt of his sword down over the boy's head, clubbing him savagely.

Jet's pale violet eyes went wide and then glazed over vacantly, the impact hitting the base of his skull and running down every nerve in his body, telling it to shut itself down. He fell to his knees and the flopped onto his stomach, coughing up a bit of blood before falling unconscious. The demon set a foot on the silver-haired boy's back and pressed him into the ground, to make sure that he was unable to get up again. Jet was, along with Gallows, totally out of the action. Now the swordsman turned to the last fighter standing, kicking Jet away. "Virginia," He said quietly, "Will you succeed where these two have failed? Can you prove to me that the human race deserves to survive? Will you show me your courage and hope?"

The shadow behind Kaitlyn rippled and darkened into an inky form, like a layer of black velvet that moved like heavy water. Slowly, carefully, parting from the shadow and pushing through the clinging streams of darkness, a deadly plated claw met the free air and hovered only inches away from touching Kaitlyn's small shoulder. She let out a soft startled gasp when she was suddenly grabbed from behind, her voice muffled by the claw now slapped over her mouth. Her body went limp out of reflex and she was then covered by a solid shadow, one that was not just non-existent, but felt very soft, like feathers. Kaitlyn was yanked back into the darkness and disappeared without a trace, the hidden winged shadow pausing for a moment, seeming to look at Catherine, before slinking away into the shade. Nobody noticed the girl's departure, all were focussed on the battle between the demon and the humans.

The demon stepped over Jet's body to widen the playing field, remembering to also leave Gallows's unconscious body alone. He searched his pockets and pulled out a white handkerchief that was already slightly stained with black demon blood, folding the cloth over a few times so it became thicker and wrapped it around his blade, moving it downwards so that it soaked up all of the blood, slicking the metal and dulling it's shine. Jet was making a small puddle of crimson fluid where he lay and groaned weakly, the bloom of a painful bruise beginning to manifest upon the back of his head. Virginia looked down at him, came to an extremely painful decision and unholstered both of her ARMs, pointing them straight at the demon's heart.

"Why?" She asked in a cracked heartbreaking voice. "Why are you doing this, Clive? We're on the same side. We're your friends. We _love_ you. Why do you have to hurt us so?" The drifter closed her eyes and felt within her heart that she had been in this scene before, when she had pointed her pair of ARMs right at her father's holographic form. For so long after that, after his confirmed secondary death at Mimir's Well, her teammates had been so supporting to her in their own individual way, and Clive had watched over her in the way that a father should. Virginia at once realized something painfully obvious. Clive had taken over Werner's role as a father in her heart.

"I'm touched Virginia, I really am." The swordsman said sincerely and without being sarcastic, honestly looking like he appreciated the words. "But I said before, I _have_ to do this. I may as well enjoy myself too, you see. Please do not be afraid, it will not hurt for very long. I can only hope that you try and kill me before I kill you." He smiled and spread his arms wide. "Shoot me," He said jovially, "Protect the others and shoot me."

"You can't be serious!" Virginia exclaimed, surprised, lowering her ARMs a little. Was he _trying _to mimic Werner's last moments of life? Was he mocking her? No, this was Clive Winslett she was thinking about , and he would never _ever_ do anything so petty. But still, Virginia squared her jaw and tried to suppress her anger and fear, this was just so similar. _…Do I have to kill him? Kill another father, right in front of his family…? I don't want to do it… but I…_

He waited for a few moments, then slowly lowered his arms to his sides. "…Fine." He said dully, adjusting his glasses. "If you will not pre-empt me, then I shall have to strike first. I gave you a chance Virginia, but now, taste this!" He sprung at her, swinging his sword in such a way that caused the air to whistle around him, a high-pitched cry matching the blurring motion of the blade. Virginia cried out as she felt herself draw blood and she fired her ARMs on reflex, the crack of the pistols going off and the smoke rising from the barrel alerting her to her actions. A stream of blood leaked from a cut to her face into her eyes, stinging badly. Her eyes began to water, not from the pain, but from the betrayal of her emotions.

The demon staggered and fell to one knee, releasing the grip on his sword to clutch his left shoulder, where a gradually spreading damp patch of flowing blood was appearing on his coat. Twin bullet holes had been torn in the fabric, and a sizzling sound made the swordsman wince and grit his teeth, still vulnerable to the silver even after he had been cured of his curse. The bullets burnt his flesh with unholy rage and he dug his fingers into the injury, biting back a moan of pain. Blood dribbled down his fingers as he tore open the wound and gouged the bullets out, taking with him a small mess of body tissue. For a human, the pain of this act would have been totally unbearable, but the two bullets rolled into the demon's palm, smeared with blood, and he dropped them on the floor, not even giving them a second glance. The silver fizzled and hissed in contact with his blood, and he pressed his hand to his wound again, feeling the shifting of his flesh as it repaired itself with great haste.

"Good… that's good…" He said unsteadily, struggling back onto two feet. He looked satisfied by Virginia's actions as he carefully rubbed feeling back into his shoulder, no longer bleeding or wounded in any way. "Protect what you care about. It is the mantra of the human race. Live to protect, die to protect. Don't let anybody try and control you, Virginia. You are much higher than that. Take control of your life, and listen… listen only to your heart. Then, accept the responsibilities you have chosen to take, and regret nothing..." He got back into his battle stance, but his eyes almost conveyed a revulsion to the next fight that would take place. He frowned for a moment, like something inside his body had irritated him, but then went back to his former, self assured visage. "We will regret nothing as this match draws to a close… Hunt me, Virginia, or I will hunt you…"

Virginia sniffed slightly and wiped the blood out of her eyes with the back of her white-gloved hand, smearing the staining fluid all over the pristine surface. She raised her weapons again and two streams of tears trickled down both of her cheeks, dripping onto her dirty blouse. Her long brown plait had come undone during the previous fight with her enemy as a lycan and the chestnut brown hair spilled down her back, flecked with dirt and dust. The drifter's hands were shaking badly, but the grip she had on the weapons was tight and rigid. "You don't want to do this," She whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, "Please, Clive. Stand down. I don't want to hurt you, please… Stop this now…"

The swordsman immediately underwent a change of demeanor and laughed at the girl, shaking his head like he had heard the telling of a very funny and ironic joke. "How mistaken you are, Virginia. I have every desire to finish this little duel, I seriously hope you can offer me a greater challenge than these," He flicked his wrist towards Jet and Gallows's bodies, lying quietly by the wayside, "… _Individuals._" Touching the metal of the sword in a strangely loving way, he ran his finger along the sharp edge lightly, carefully refraining from drawing any of his own blood. Kuronegaiken shivered in anticipation of her master's intents, and almost seemed to spur him onwards with a silent coaxing voice, one which formed no words.

Stumbling back a few steps, yet refusing to show her back to him, her fingers trembled against the hairline trigger and she sobbed audibly, her mind filled with visions of Gallows and Jet's broken and smashed bodies, being laid out for burial. Because Clive had caused it. Because Clive had _wanted_ them to die. Who was he now? How could he be the dear friend who had chatted with her less than a few days away outside the Secret Garden's forest, who had told her that everything would be okay? No, it could not be, which meant that the _real _Clive Winslett must have died. This made her sob harder. "Why are you doing this?" She cried through her tears, "We don't want to hurt you, please don't make us hurt you…"

He shook his head again, faintly whispering the word; "No." Grasping his blade, he cut through the air in a show of swordsmanship, reveling in the small breeze it made and the enchanting blue arc that it momentarily left in it's wake. Why in the world did he waste all his time learning to be a sniper, when he could have had something like _this_? The demon chuckled, realizing that it was as if he had the powers of one of the Guardian Lords directly at his fingertips. He adjusted his glasses one more time to aid his unnaturally honed vision and sighed, letting out all his built in tension. The match was over, and he attacked.

Virginia didn't know if her body was frozen by fear, or if she had chosen not to move at all by herself. She just watched him approach with the inner tumult of her soul cloaked with her own streaming tears, and could feel the demon leaning over her, pressing the blade to her neck, drawing a faint line of blood. She was almost pushed so far back that she lost her balance, but remained standing up on trembling knees, wishing that things could have turned out better. A few drops of blood ran into the hollow of her throat, but the sword slice, born of deadly precision, did not complete it's execution. Feeling weak all over, the girl wondered why she did not die.

One more centimeter, and he could slit her throat. He knew he could, and that the blade screamed out for him to do it, to finish his duel, but the demon ignored the impulse and allowed both himself and his victim to stand there in mid-attack, waiting to see who would fall over first. Virginia's legs grew too weak and she fell backwards, only a foot or two away from Jet. Looking up at the swordsman towering above her, her face asked the question; "Why?"

He smiled.

"Psyche." He said.


	74. Ambivalence

As Virginia lay on her back in a small puddle of Jet's congealing blood, she vaguely wondered what the embrace of death would be like. Her body felt stiff all over and achy, her ears straining to hear the sounds of her enemy's boots crunching on the gritty earth as he moved closer to her fallen form. She was not hurt badly, only bearing a deep cut on the side of her face, but her soul had been critically injured by the betrayal of the friendship with the swordsman, and she just had trouble caring anymore, it would all be over soon anyway. Jet and Gallows had been defeated, and soon, herself also. It was so laughably ironic for her to be killed by the person she had respected the most as her father-figure, but she couldn't help but wonder if this was a divine kind of payback for the mock life she had taken from the faded shell of her _real_ father's form, months and months ago. Yes, she smiled a little in the midst of her pain, it was _so_ ironic…

__

…I guess that if anybody had to kill me, it may as well be a former friend. Goodbye everyone. I'm sorry I couldn't be the leader that everybody needed. And Jet… Jet… jet…

She closed her eyes, and resigned herself to death.

But…

A hand reached out and grasped Virginia's, cold to the touch, but not uninviting. It pulled her up from her spot on the ground and made sure she did not fall again, leaving Kuronegaiken slightly piercing the ground and standing up by itself. Virginia blinked, confused, and brushed more blood out of her eyes, groaning. She had no idea what was going on, and wondered why she was not dead. The demon sighed and adjusted his glasses, but smiled at the same time. "I am so very sorry, Virginia." He said guiltily. "But I _had_ to fight you, and I _had_ to win. If I didn't, those memories of defeat in the past would have haunted me forever, and I could never had stood to be near a human again. It is okay now, I have finally beaten the three human warriors, and that part of my soul can now rest in peace. Virginia, thank you."

The drifter leader blinked, her mind a foggy haze. "But the others… Jet and Gallows… and me. You didn't kill me. You could have, but you didn't. Why?" The swordsman put his hand on her shoulder and gently forced her to sit down, whereupon he did the same right after, plucking Kuronegaiken out of the ground and placing it across his lap. Faint traces of blood still flecked certain parts of the blade, and it was very hard for Virginia to look at. The demon's eyes were closed almost meditatively, and the only movements he made were non-offensive, the rising and falling of his breathing and his tail waving back and forth in thought. Virginia bit her lip. "And you are not Clive Winslett, are you? Tell me, what happened to him? What is going on?

He answered her after a choice few seconds of thought. "I won the match. All three of you are now incapable of fighting me. There is no reason for me to kill you after I have already won. I don't want to kill anymore. That part of my life is over now." He stood up and walked over to Gallows's body, straightening it out and then doing the same to Jet's body that has finally stopped bleeding. "I will explain more, but after I revive these two. I did not injure them badly, merely enough to take away their consciousness for a little while." The swordsman looked over and waved to Catherine, signaling her over. The woman jumped a little but then complied, making her way over to the drifter and demon. Dario stayed where he was, not really tuned into the world around him and obviously traumatized by the horrific things he had seen. He was still shivering a little, and every so often he would curse under his breath.

"Revive!" Chanted the green-haired man over the two laid out bodies, calling upon his fire medium and the raw primal energy it bore. A pulsing blue line of flame traced a pentagram underneath their bodies as he cast it twice, balls of fire appearing at each of the star's different points. The intensity of the fire and light increased to a near blinding point before fading away with a twinkle and a simmer. Jet moaned and his body twitched a little, but Gallows's body stayed the same, as unfeeling and as unhearing as a corpse. Virginia put her arm around Jet's back and helped him sit up, noting that the cuts and gashes all over his body had degraded into more, nearly invisible scratches. The source of the swordsman's magic must have certainly gotten stronger, she thought.

Catherine knelt and shook Gallows lightly, in an attempt to wake him up. Failing in this, she looked up towards her husband and he shook his head, brandishing his sword one more time. "Gallows is no longer in his body," He explained, "He is in here, residing within the cold frightening world that is inside Kuronegaiken's blade. But now… I shall free him." Before anybody could think, or even have time to stop him, the demon had risen the end of his blade over the Baskar's body and had stabbed it cleanly through his chest, making everybody gasp with surprise. Catherine reached out and grabbed the demon's arm in alarm, though there was nothing she could do to reverse what had already been done.

Gallows flinched from the contact and a white light encircled the wound the demon had made, no blood choosing to flow forth from the injury. Holding the weapon there for a while, the swordsman eventually removed it and the white light withered away, where the priest was unharmed and whole. Kuronegaiken had lost a small percentage of it's shine, but Gallows began to cough and heave, rolling over and curling up as if he was extremely cold. His eyes blinked open and the first thing he saw was Catherine's midsection, because he had his head in her lap. The workings of his brain kicked in after a small lagging period and he jumped to his feet, scratching the back of his head and muttering an apology, guiltily looking over at the ex-drifter's husband.

Rubbing his eyes in an almost childish fashion, Jet blinked and set his blurry vision upon a shape that seemed to look like the swordsman who had tried to kill him. At first he was very confused, but then felt Virginia beside him and rubbing his back carefully, bringing feeling back into his arms and legs. His violet eyes were pale and weak, but were now open and showed that he was alive and coherent again. Gallows rubbed his cold arms and nearly sneezed, his mind was a total blank for a very long period of time, but he had an inkling in his heart that wherever he had been sent to, it had been mortifyingly chilly. He never wanted to go back there again. Looking around him, he could see that nobody was injured anymore, and that the demon had halted his onslaught.

He leant against his sword and adjusted his glasses one more time, wiping his hands, which were a little bloody, on his already blood red coat. "I have fought you and I have won. Virginia, Gallows and Jet, I hope you did not take me for a heartless murderer. I would have accepted you killing me as fair play, however, I would have never even _dreamed_ of ending any of your lives. Were I to do that, then I would be no better than what I was two thousand years ago." He fixed his gaze on Virginia, who had only just then noticed that his blue eyes had darkened to it's now unusual mahogany colouring. "It was you, Virginia, who saw through my façade to my true intentions. You did not back down when I rose to strike, and you managed to see through my bluff. It must have taken nerves of steel, you should be proud."

Virginia sighed tiredly and allowed herself to lean against Jet lightly, comforted by his body warmth. She felt so weary and she could also sense that the others were as well, though they chose to hide it in their own way. "Tell us the truth, demon." She had to address him by the name of his race, because the drifter just could not bear to let herself believe that this person who had attacked them was her friend and ally. Even though he had Clive's body, spoke with Clive's voice, and smiled just the same. Maybe she was only being intolerant, but the weakness of her body didn't help her at all to be open-minded. "You didn't deny it when I said that you were not Clive Winslett. If that's true, then who are you? What are you dong here? What has happened to the real Clive?"

He looked at Catherine with an almost apologetic gaze, clearing his throat and preparing to speak. "It is… difficult to say. The truth might upset you. Please, be prepared." He admitted slowly. "The person you know as Clive Winslett no longer exists in this world. He sacrificed his body, his mind and his soul for his family and friends, so that there could be a chance for their lives to be saved. I am so very sorry, but he has passed on towards his next life." His statement had a delayed effect on all of them, but it hit after a few seconds and the silence was deafening, Catherine feeling her knees becoming weak as she sunk to the floor, too startled and too upset even to cry. Virginia opened and closed her mouth a few times, but absolutely no sound came out. The two other male drifters kept their emotions inside, though Gallows was fiercely clenching his teeth.

"Do not be sad." The demon continued quietly, kneeling with Catherine and wrapping an arm around her back for support. "Clive did not want you to be sad. He wanted you to be happy and safe, and think of him without needing to shed any tears. He was smiling as he gave away his soul, knowing that you would be okay gave him the strength to regret nothing and martyr himself for a greater cause. It was his fate, and his destiny. Catherine… Catherine, please look at me." He hooked one finger underneath her chin and tilted it upwards, and saw that her soft grey eyes were brimming over with tears. He brushed each tear away and smiled, hoping to make her smile also.

"Clive is not dead." He announced to the others while still looking into Catherine's eyes, moving his left hand up to gently tap one of the sides of his head. "He lives in here," He then trailed his hand down to his chest, to where his heart continued to beat, "And here. Always here. Always in my heart. I admit that I am not, and shall never be the original Clive Winslett that you all can fondly remember, but his memories, his personality, and his emotions shall always exist within me, and will be remembered in the hearts of others. Catherine, tell me. With all this life and the memories he left behind, how could anybody say that Clive truly has died?"

He embraced Catherine as she fell sobbing into his arms, holding her tightly as if he would never let go again. He didn't try to stop her tears, because they needed to be shed, so that she could continue onward with her life. The demon was well aware of what this group of people meant to the person he used to be, and understood the great lengths Clive had taken to keep them protected. He hoped deeply that he could live up to that expectation that Clive had left with him, and let a few tears of his own leak out of his system. Catherine choked out a few hiccups and found her voice, pressing the side of her face into his chest. "What shall… what are we going to call you now? Who… are you?" She asked unsteadily.

The swordsman was thoughtful for a moment. "I do not have a name," He confessed, "But you can still call me Clive Winslett, if you want. My memories of being called that are the strongest in my mind. However, I shall answer to the name Boomerang also." He smiled happily, but at the same time, sadly. "I've come back. I'm here again. Catherine, it is me. It is Clive. I faded away… but I had to come back… I had to see everyone again. Look at me, Catherine." She glanced up into his dark mahogany eyes and saw a trace of something familiar flicker within them, not in their colour or appearance, but by the _way_ they looked when he smiled. She could see her husband within them, safe and sound, and it gave her the courage to smile back.

He stiffened a little as Virginia hugged him also from behind, wetting the back of his red coat with her own tears. But they were tears of joy this time, because she could see that the most important part of Clive had found a way to come back. Gallows hugged all three of them with his long muscular arms and laughed cheerfully, quickly turning the event into a big group hug. Virginia looked towards Jet who was watching them with a mixed expression and the silver-haired boy rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, pretending to be reluctant as he joined the others. The demon felt the air being slowly squeezed out of his lungs but he honestly didn't care, so incredibly glad to be back with the people that he loved. "We will call you Clive." Catherine cried into his chest. "You are our Clive, and will be nobody else. Promise us this, okay?"

The swordsman felt a huge leaden weight fall away from his heart, surrounded by people that cared. In all his two thousand years of life, he could never have hoped to be happier. "I promise." He said quietly, but then his tone saddened a little, continuing. "But, I cannot help but say how sorry I am. You must have realised by now that my human state was never my original state, though the darkness in my heart has been laid out for all to see." It was hard for him to speak of things like this, but he knew it had to be said. "But, that darkness shall always be a part of my true self… Knowing that, you can all still love me?" He felt one, two or probably all of them squeeze his body harder in the hug, and that was a good enough answer for him.

Clive Winslett closed his eyes and bowed his head, he allowed himself to cry freely amongst his family and friends, shedding tears of joy, because he knew he would never leave their sides ever again.


	75. Cage Of Glass And Distant Memories

"Kaitlyn!"

Some time later, after they had taken the opportunity to calm down from the intense emotions that had overcome them a while ago, it was surprisingly Dario who had pointed out that Kaitlyn was missing, albeit a little uncomfortable, still unable to make proper eyes contact with Clive after all the horrific things he had seen the sniper do. Clive was holding Catherine's hand for her support, scanning the area with his honed senses for her whereabouts. Kaitlyn wouldn't have just run off by herself, would she? No, the girl would have known better than that, especially when they were in such a dark and scary place. Gallows was lifting up small rocks and looking under them, while Jet and Virginia looked behind some of the larger rock formations, the silver-haired android leaning heavily on Virginia's side so he could stand up properly. Clive winced every time he heard Jet make a soft groan of pain, or flinched, knowing that he had injured Jet a little too badly. Once this was over, he really needed to see a proper physician.

Even Dario was helping. Clive felt that he had to restrain himself every time the bandit came a little too close for comfort, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on the thin blade hanging harmlessly on the coat by his side. The swordsman knew he couldn't kill in cold blood anymore, not when Dario was not being a danger to anyone, but that still didn't make his hands itch a little for justice to be done. He _had_ been one of Ravendor's lackeys, but then again, Clive knew that Dario could never be a serious threat to him. He would spare Dario's life, for now, at least.

Clive cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. "Kaitlyn!" He called again. "Where are you?! Are you hiding?! Did I scare you?! Please Kaitlyn, I am sorry, just come back! Can you hear me?!" Nothing, where on earth could she have run off to? Why would she run away? Clive bit his lip nervously and felt a twinge of guilt run through his body. He _had_ been fighting Virginia and the others, had that been enough to scare the little girl away? Catherine set her hand upon his arm, and gently forced him to lower it, seeming to read his mind and shake her head.

"This wasn't your fault, Clive. I'm sure of that. I think it was-" She began.

"…My fault, perhaps?" Somebody else finished up for her.

Near one of the walls of the cavern, not too far away from the Maxwell Gang, a small ledge made from the collapse of Diablo into the wall jutted out and was a safe distance away from the ground and those who inhabited it, though it was also close enough for conversation to be made without any trouble. Virginia and Jet were the closest to it and backed away towards the others, finding it better to stay within a group. Gallows thought the same and so did Dario, but Clive and Catherine stood at the front, gazing up at the person standing upon the ledge, with a gratified smirk on his face. "Ravendor." Clive spat with utmost venom, narrowing his eyes.

The bandit leader, or at least, what appeared to vaguely look like the bandit leader bowed, keeping with him at all times his air of unnatural grace. "In the flesh." He replied melodiously, looking over everybody present to see if they were all there. Catherine felt her blood run as cold as ice when she noticed the intense changes to Ravendor's body, for now he looked like some kind of horrible experiment gone wrong, with the brands upon his body as testament to that hideous act. His wings glistened in the weak light in the cavern, one held out in front of his body as if trying to conceal something close to him. When he smiled, she could feel her heart seize up in her chest. How many more people close to her heart were going to turn into horrible, fearful monsters like this?

Even Clive appeared to be slightly shaken. "My gods, Ravendor. What in the world happened to you?" His senses had been correct earlier, he _had_ sensed another demon in the area. But why on earth would somebody like _Ravendor_ become a demon? It didn't make any sense. He asked another question, reminding himself to keep every single thing in perspective. Something more important came first. "Where is Kaitlyn?! What have you done with her?!"

The dark-haired man played his mock-innocence card once more, tilting his head slightly to one side. "You have lost track of your daughter? Dear Clive, perhaps you should take better notice of her, or keep her on a leash or something." His smile was infuriatingly smug. "Not to worry. I have her right here, see?" Ravendor removed his wing from in front of his body and revealed Clive's daughter standing next to him, her eyes squeezed closed and shaking. Ravendor's taloned hand was biting down into her shoulder, and though it drew no blood, the hold looked to be very tight and uncomfortable. Kaitlyn's hands were over her eyes, and tears were dripping down from beneath them.

Clive had to hold Catherine back with a firm grip of his own, trying to keep a cool head in a crisis situation. It was insanely difficult, though. Just seeing that man with her daughter made his blood boil like molten lava. _Calm down, calm down…_ He told himself. _Looking for a shortcut can lead you astray. Do not let him get the better of you, do not do anything brash…_ Clive took a very deep breath and decided that negotiation was the best course to take at the time, despite feeling and intense desire to climb up that ledge and beat the shit out of his enemy all by himself. "That is my daughter you have there. Give her back _now_." Saying this, he took a step forward.

"_Stay back!_" The bandit leader said sharply and a little more vehemently than he probably wished to. "Stay where you are or I will kill her. Do you wish to see her blood spilled?" Clive stopped in his tracks and growled a little, hating being controlled like this. His hand wound around the grip of his sword, listening to Kuronegaiken silently beg and plead to be used in the heat of melee battle. He did not act, too afraid of what Ravendor could do to Kaitlyn in the small span of time between drawing and reaching his destination. His other hand was nearly being squeezed to death by Catherine, her head down while her body shook with emotion.

"The end of my tail secretes a powerful kind of poison." Ravendor informed them softly, raising his tail and holding the tip near Kaitlyn's jugular vein. "It causes paralysis, nausea and severe discomfort to an adult, but to a child's immune system, it can be quite lethal, and kill within a matter of minutes. I do not have any wish to harm Kaitlyn, but come any closer and I will surely kill her." Catherine empathetically held a hand to her throat and shot a sad look towards Ravendor, which somehow did not reach him. He was beyond being reached, too lost in the dark. "Or," He continued with a neutral expression, "I could try a more traditional method and shoot her dead instead. Which do you prefer?"

Kaitlyn was sobbing very quietly and shaking, confused and very scared. Ravendor was holding her shoulder firmly but very gently, but through the dialogue drowned out by her tears, she pieced together what was going to happen to her. She was going to die. Ravendor squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and lowered his tail, instead pressing the barrel of his pistol into the small of her back. The gun felt cold and unfeeling, and it only scared her more. Yet, though Ravendor's harsh words, adding softly in a tone that only he himself and the girl could hear, he said; "Do not cry, Kaitlyn. I will not hurt you, I promise. Stand still and be a good girl, and nothing will happen to you. Trust me, okay?" Forcing herself to become still, Kaitlyn nodded slightly, barely noticeable, and used all her willpower to halt her flow of tears. Even then, she felt that she could still trust her Uncle Ravendor.

Glaring daggers, Clive's hand was clenched around Kuronegaiken's handle so firmly that his knuckles were turning a pale pasty white. Then, he just couldn't hold the built-up hatred inside anymore and it exploded in his chest. "Gods damn you, Ravendor Begucci! Your quarrel is with me, not her! Stop hiding behind all the distractions and hostages and face me, you disgusting despicable beast! I see the monster in your soul had finally spread outwardly and turned you into your true form! How happy this must make you feel, to destroy the lives of others! Does it give you satisfaction to exist like this?! _Will you let Kaitlyn die all over again_?! If that is so, then you truly are a monster, and deserve to die!"

Ravendor's calm façade slipped upon Clive's words, and he clenched the claw holding his ARM so tightly that it almost dented the metal of the weapon, the demon's deep green eyes flashing in anger and the runes upon his body flaring once in sync with his emotions. "Did you think that I _wanted_ to be this way?! Do you honestly believe that this was what I _desired_?! How can you believe that?!" Kaitlyn jumped at the venom in his words and started to cry again, while Ravendor was too riled by Clive's words to notice. "It was **_you_**, Clive Winslett, who turned me into this monster! You were the one who signed away my soul for all eternity to live forever as an **_abomination_**!"

The swordsman was stunned out of his anger for a moment, the emotion replaced by shock. "…I did what…?"

The bandit leader was gritting his teeth so hard that it was becoming painful. "Eleven years ago… when you destroyed that ruin… you destroyed me as well. But because you forced me to come to such a place, I was killed, and nobody came to save me. Nobody wanted to rescue me. I died there, I think you know that already. But because you let me die… **_they_ **had a chance to… and Malik… he… he…"

xxx

The explosion had been far too sudden for him to attempt an escape. He did not see the floor fall away around him, or the walls begin to crumble. He called out to the rest of his teammates, but received no reply. He certainly didn't see the huge mound of rock bear down upon him, and when the impact was made, he barely even saw this as well. It was in the moments after, being crushed to death by a huge chunk of the ceiling, when the pain began to register, that Ravendor finally knew that he was about to die. The only companion he had left was the loyal black raven screeching frantically by his side, frightened, upset and hysterical at everything that was happening around him. Ravendor was the opposite, quietly listening to the pain that was creeping up his body in violent agonizing jabs. He didn't complain, he had wanted to die for _so_ long…

Kestorael pulled feebly at Ravendor's shirt, fluttering his darkened wings for a little extra pull, attempting to haul his master out from under the giant crushing stone. It was a hopeless venture, not even fifty strong men would have been able to shift it, let alone haul it out of the way. The small bird cried out in frustration and pulled again, his little talons sliding on the pool of blood forming around the stone and the body underneath it. Rocks fell all around Kestorael, nearly deafening him as the walls began to collapse. Still he tried to free his master. Ravendor opened his eyes, glazed over by the incredible loss of blood. He couldn't feel anything below his waist, it had all been destroyed by the rockfall. His dulling senses caught Kestorael's motions and he slowly shifted his arm, the one that had not been damaged by the fall, sticky with his own blood. With the back of his hand, he knocked Kestorael away.

The bird looked at him, cocking his head to one side, and cawed softly, contemplating what to do. Then, he moved again and grabbed a hold of something stronger and more firmly attached than Ravendor's shirt, attracted by it's gleaming colour in the darkness. Kestorael's beak closed onto a chain around Ravendor's neck, bearing a simple silver cross. It was splashed with blood. The raven pulled on it anyway, in a futile attempt to save his master. Ravendor saw this, and smiled. The dark-haired man's limbs went numb from the lack of blood, and he couldn't even feel the pain anymore. It felt… nice. Kind of fuzzy, and dimming. The lights were going out, one by one, around him. "Kestorael…" He rasped quietly, feeling the bird still trying to free him. "You cannot save me… But thank you… thank you anyway…"

The chain broke and the bird was propelled backwards, dragging with him the piece of bloodied silver. Ravendor closed his eyes and went still, taking in his last breath. A rock grazed Kestorael's side and the bird made a break for safety, fluttering his wings and homing in on the faint pinpoint of light ahead. The wind sprite barely escaped with his life intact, and had lost many feathers in the process. Kestorael took the cross and flew into the sky, finding a place to hide, and to think. A low rumble was the cavern collapsing in on itself, and the bird faintly saw the dust rise from the ruin, and knew that his master had been buried, deeply, under the ground. He alighted on a dead tree branch and warbled sadly, lost.

A long time passed. It must have been hours, many hours, for the dust had finally settled and the rocks had neatly nestled into place, and silence, endless silence, passed through the area like a sacred homeland. There were bodies buried in the rubble, some entirely hidden, and others not quite. Ravendor was one of them, the corpse more or less intact from the waist up. There was a look of exhaustion imposed on his pale face, tiredness, but also a weird kind of content. The silence was suddenly disturbed by a few hushed voices, and somebody knelt down next to the corpse, sending up a little cloud of dust. A slender hand was pressed against Ravendor's cheek, checking his body warmth, and then moved down to take his pulse. There was none. A feminine voice was heard. "Dead." She said, stroking the dead man's raven black hair. "But it must have been less sudden than the other corpses."

Two more people approached, both of the masculine persuasion. The older one of the two motioned to the blood red giant looming above them, unhindered by the intense rockfall, and freed from it's earth-wreaked restraints. The golem still slept, undisturbed. "This one is fine. No damages." He said, and then looked down towards the corpse. Around it, some black feathers had been scattered, stuck to the ground by an amount of dried blood. The body of this man did not seem to have struggled against it's fate, if at all. Beside him, the younger man of the trio plucked one of the feathers off the ground and studied it with fascination, a small smile playing upon his lips.

He looked at the others. "The Hyades experiment." He said, his voice softer and less gruff than his older companion, lilting through the air. "We need a new candidate, do we not? Will this body do? It looks fairly intact, compared to the others." He moved over to his female companion and also knelt with her, tilting the corpse's head up for a better look. Yes, he had absolutely no cranial damage at all. He was in a near perfect condition, and, the young man couldn't help but notice with an immoral glimmer in his eyes exactly how handsome the body was, incredibly handsome, at least to his eyes. The man brushed some blonde hair behind his ear, looking at the feather in his hand. An idea popped into his head, and his fingers began to itch almost pleasantly. He always had the very _best_ ideas. Around him, the rest of his group nodded. "Also," He added, "There are a few _other_ things I might like to test, provided that nobody objects." He received silence, and the scientist almost licked his lips in anticipation.

"Good." Malik said. "Then let us begin."

xxx

The first thing he sensed was darkness. A encompassing shade that swallowed his bruised and smashed body with a gluttonous malice, all-consuming, devouring, tearing away at his flesh with teeth of licking flame, laying bare muscle and organ, allowing blood to escape and diffuse into the thick fluids surrounded him, the jaws of decay. In this transition between life and light, there was death, darkness, and nothing else. He hung there in a suspended animation, breathing in the heady liquid that kept his body a fraction away from total annihilation. A dependency that was second only to a mother and her child.

Consciousness came slowly after and at a snail's pace, all of his senses returning in a murky collective, great gaps between his body and mind leaving no room for proper thought. He was just an awoken vessel with no spirit to give direction, an animated corpse. His legs and arms were numb and unfeeling, dark hair floated loosely in the solution, cut free of it's ponytail ages ago. His lungs, not adapted to breathing in fluid instead of air, shuddered each time he inhaled the water, somehow drawing oxygen from the broth. Something behind his shoulder blades quivered continuously and was considered the most painful of all, nothing could stop the constant hurt, it did not feel _right_.

Then, Ravendor opened his eyes.

His rhythm of breathing broken, he choked out in astonishment a startled cry, a bubble of oxygen rising from his throat and coughed into the concoction he floated in, a deep blue ichor that felt sweet and nearly nourishing in his system, but unnatural and false. The liquid was running through all his veins and arteries, his bloodstream, everywhere. Ravendor cried out again, refusing to accept the reality that had sent him to this place. Panicking, he thrashed out into the shadows before him, growing dizzy from the severity of the motion, and shrinking back towards a center in the small world he inhabited. Jerking his arms out in such a way caused something unfamiliar to flex suddenly, and his previous cry turned into an aqueous shriek, knowing he was crying even without seeing the tears on his face. A horrible convulsion seized up everything at the muscles in his back, like a severe cramp that spread throughout his body and held him in place.

With all his hysteria spent by the outburst, Ravendor could not help but become silent, his limbs becoming heavy and he just let them float there in the fluid, drifting a few feet above a translucent blue floor. He drew in another shuddering breath, unused to the feel of fluid in his lungs, but it actually felt more sustaining than oxygen ever could have been. His green eyes focussed and looked around the chamber, more like a cocoon of glass and liquid than anything else. He watched his fingers trail in the water with mild disinterest, a comforting feeling of contentment shadowing his mind. This did feel good, if a little wrong, the pain that hurt him so severely was beginning to fade away, leaving the sensation of the thick fluids moving against his bare skin.

__

What has happened…? The explosion, I was crushed… under a gigantic stone… lying in blood… Why am I here?

It should have killed me… is this it?

Am I… dead?

Ravendor found he had just enough strength to brush loose tresses of dark hair out of his face, it still floated around annoyingly without his consent, but the man found it difficult to be upset at anything in his current state, like somebody had strung him up to a high dosage of calming drugs. He paused with vague interest at something new printed on his arm, writing he had never seen before, he couldn't make it out because his eyes were too blurry, but it still intrigued him. If he was dead, who had written on his arm? Also, if his theory was true, why did he continue to feel pain?

Twitch. Twitch. He trembled again from the pain lanced down his back, feeling with precision like a pair of red hot pokers had been shoved into his back and dragged downward to make a long open wound, one that stung as the liquid flowed through it. Something moved and he gritted his teeth roughly, holding back a curse. It felt like a scar torn wide open, bursting from his skin and laying bare the tender tissues beneath. Nothing had hurt so badly before, never, not once.

He reached outward into the fluid, trying to touch the dark blue casing keeping the liquid inside his weird cocoon. His fingers grazed a cold and hard, yet smooth substance, translucent and slightly glowing. It was unlike any type of glass he had ever seen before, with gooey growths coating the inside of the tank, the solidification of the blue lifeblood like algae, wispy and plantlike. Ravendor dug his nails into the organism, scratching it away to see what lay beyond the glass. It was muffled, but he heard voices, complemented by blurry motions on the other side of the cocoon. There were people, _living_ people outside. He could hear them, they were talking. Ravendor floated closer to the glass, trying to make out the muted words.

__

"The experiment… is playing god one of your… we are sinners for this deed… I know it."

Ravendor could not make out the entire sentence, and even if he could, he would never have understood it. His mind wasn't working properly, and it had just reason for it. Still, he continued to listen, it was his only connection to the outside world. He scraped away more delicate algae, anxious to get out of this place that was far too uncomfortably cozy for his liking. It felt artificial.

__

"We found the corpse crushed at Diablo's repository… I assure you, you are mistaken! You… much to uptight. The chances of it animating are great, but… the return of consciousness is at less than three percent. Gods we are not."

"If the wisdom of Hyades is at out disposal… all we work for… then why hesitate to use it? For Adam Kadmon… this project must be fruitful. Are you not excited over the prospect of creating such a being? To see it walk and talk and live again, and even more, to have it do our bidding?"

"You are… twisted, Malik. Bio-material… synthesis and replication are one thing, but … esoteric genetic mutation is abhorrent! Should a soul… still be present, what then?"

"… Unlikely. The … panakeia fluid should sustain the body, but the mind can… survive only from force of will. Melody has a point. For a chance to speak to the gods, to acquire the word of the gods… this may be the only way. Besides, even if it **does** regain it's memories, which as I repeat is unlikely, we should have complete control over it's free will."

"But that is slavery! … I hate this… A life is a life… we should not be so trivial as to manipulate it to our whim… Even with Gias and the inverted Gemini circuits implanted into the body… it may be too much for it to handle."

Hyades? Adam Kadmon? Panakeia? Gias? All these words made no sense to Ravendor, he did not understand a thing and it scared him. Were the voices talking about him? Who were they? Why did they do this? He wanted answers, and he wanted them now! Through all this, Ravendor still wanted to die. He had gotten so close, he could feel the life drawing out of his body, when it had all gone fuzzy and warm, the rock crushing his body and squeezing away his soul. Why did he still exist? He did not want to exist! Those condescending voices, they had done this to him, just as Clive had denied him his own death years ago, and they had thrown it all back in his face.

Ravendor clenched his fists, feeling a burning heat flare up in his chest that spread down his arms and legs, warming his blood at a temperature even higher than the lukewarm solution around his body. He felt as if he were on fire, a pressure forcing anger out of his mind, giving it power, making it physical…

__

…Get me out of this tank…I hate this… Let me out… no… I do not like it here… It's… it's horrible… Want out… now… Can't breathe… well… Let me out! Let me out now! I want out! _LET ME OUT OF HERE!_

A crack appeared in the solid and pulsing glass, increasing in size like a woven spider web in front of the tortured soul within his constricting cocoon. He did not ask for this, to be rescued or spared from the embrace of death, all he wanted to do was die. Nothing more. He could not die if he stayed in here, for the sake of all he wanted to sacrifice, he had to escape. Ravendor slammed his fist against the weakened glass, sensing the thick liquid, panakeia, spilling out onto the other side of the chamber. The water lever inched lower and his fist repeatedly bashed against the obstruction, sliding on the slimy blue algae but not eroding his suicidal resolve. This was the only way out. To die again, Ravendor had to be reborn into the world that he hated so much. For that, he would fight!

It was a terrible shock into reality. The fragile glass cocoon he spent his moment of awakening in shuddered by the pressure of his mind and fists, cracks appearing in every inch of the substance, making his muddled head spin and his consciousness pull back in hysteria. This was just too much for him. A pressure was sucking him forward and backwards at the same time, and he screamed in pure agony yet again as the _something_ at his back thrashed itself against the broken glass and cut him terribly, feeling a burn that could only be the shedding of blood. Ravendor went into a fit of choking when what he inhaled was not the heavy substance he had finally grown used to breathing, but an older element, weaker and thinner, barely sustaining him.

Oxygen.

He was tossed into the air. Glass tinkled all around him with turbid fluid splattering up and everywhere, coating himself, the floor and casting dark blue droplets into the atmosphere. He was still struggling with that strange, thin, fiercely hot substance he had tried to swallow, and spat out a mouthful of panakeia, now noxious and foul tasting, trying vainly to breathe the soft layers of absurdly weak air. White hot pain kept stabbing at him cruelly, laughing at his predicament, and he kept trying to scream, blinded by the brightness of the lights.

Ravendor hit the suspiciously cold floor on his knees, flopping like a soulless corpse and falling prone to his face, coated by the sticky panakeia fluids that ran in rivulets down his skin. His eyes, wounded by the blazing and brilliant source of light around him were forced shut, and he trembled like one who had just been born.

Seven people witnessed this spectacle, clad in their white lab coats and holding their scribbled clipboards handy. It had happened far too soon, their equipment had not even given them a warning that the experiment was so close to completion. Leehalt glanced sharply at the computer screen, dashing for the keyboard to find the source of his error. Werner was at his shoulder immediately, offering any assistance he could possibly give. The rest stood dumbstruck at the panting man, blue gunk matting dark hair to his face, shivering in the middle of their laboratory, a mighty great tower that reached to the clouds.

"This is impossible!" Leehalt called to the others, fingers flying expertly over the keyboard, "There must be some error, the birth has occurred _far_ too prematurely, no hope for success can be given now. Our experiment is a failure." He looked over his shoulder at the others, seeing the experimentation clearly breathing and alive.

"He lives…" Malik breathed in awe, slowly moving a hand to cover up his mouth in shock, "We have done it. We have rejuvenated life…" His eyes went over the still living body, a gradual smirk spreading across his handsome face. "And," He added, barely containing his joy, eyes filled with elation, "The genetic mutation has proven successful!"

But Melody proved to be much more pessimistic. "Yet based on statistical facts, there is a next to nothing chance that the corpse still contains his living soul. We may revive a body, but supplementing memory is impossible." Her white lab coat rustling with her shapely body, she gingerly knelt near the shaking man and pulled aside some of his matted hair, checking for a discerning reaction. She adjusted her glasses and narrowed her eyes, looking closely.

"I want… to… die." Ravendor rasped between ragged breaths, barely audible. "Ple…ase. Let me… die."

Her head jerked up and Melody shot a glare at Malik that pierced through him like a laser. "Fortune is with us today. His soul still lives. Quick! Prepare an IV, Malik!" Her spearing gaze thoroughly swept over the other members of the Council of Seven, augmented by her small reading glasses. "Don't just stand there and gawk! Pete! Duran! Get a room ready, and Elliot! Find a blanket or something, anything warm!" The man moaned next to her, spitting out another string of horrid panakeia. She put her hand to his bare back, massaging the ruined shoulder blade.

The others scurried off to do her bidding, knowing better to argue with Melody when she was in her bossy frame of mind, which was often. Werner whirled around, the ends of his long lab coat moving fluidly with him. "Guardians forgive us, for we have sinned." He said with simplicity, shaking his head. He looked up and to the right, where another cocoon slept without interruption, containing a pure and almost holy shining light. The sample of Filgaia, Adam Kadmon. Were all these acts of imitating God worth such pain?

Leehalt paused on his frantic typing, closing his eyes momentarily. "This is only the beginning," He said under his breath, only to himself, "If we can synthesize a superior body from the wisdom of Hyades, as we have just done, then someday perhaps even ourselves will share a similar fate." He said the last part bluntly, as if it were a fact of life; "Superiority is absolute."

Purring softly like a contented kitten, Melody leaned down to Ravendor's ear, whispering to him with a voice even sweeter than honey. "I know it hurts now, I'm sorry it has to hurt, but soon, the hurt will be over and the pupa will change to his true form, one that is beyond perfection." Her hand reached up and squeezed the new appendage sticking out of his back, slicked down with lifeblood and twitching. Ravendor howled out in mindless agony, the muscles under Melody's fingers contorting in pain.

A little bit of red mixed with the vibrant blue of the panakeia fluid, ground bits of glass encrusted a cut open wound, leaking red ichor onto the floor and mixing into a growing puddle. Elliot returned in a puffing hurry, handing the woman the blanket off his own bed, the only thing he could think of to cover up the experiment. Consolingly, she whispered more husky words to him, trying to ease the suffering within his mind. "Do not worry, darling. Reincarnation is the apex of beauty, do not shrink from fear." The warm blanket touched his back and the man screamed one last time, his throat raw from the thin air.

"Kaitlyn... Catherine… Clive… somebody... anybody... please help me..."

Ravendor blacked out, and wished death could be his.

xxx

He awoke to a gentle stroking, a soft pillow practically smothering his face. The fabric felt coarse and a little rough, but soothing and most importantly, warm. Ravendor snorted out a quick breath, pushing forward with the side of his face into the pillow and moaning slightly, feeling a long and dull ache claim just about every muscle in his body. A thick blanket was pulled up over the lower half of his body, and he lay flat on his stomach upon a very comfortable bed, vaguely noticing how cold the temperature of the room felt. He was groggy and dazed from a very long sleep, it seemed like a week had passed in his unconsciousness, when only the greater half of the day had run it's steady course.

Shaking his head a little and hearing a hushed scratching sound of his dark hair upon the pillow, he finally laid his cheek against the cushion and opened his eyes. At first, everything was illegibly blurry for about ten seconds before clearing up and showing him the world that was, the world he found himself existing in. The wall was green, yellowish and black, spun into a confusing pattern of swirls and spirals that muddled up Ravendor's newly awoken mind. The room was sharp and incredibly inorganic, almost as if it had been chiseled straight out of a block of stone, enclosing him like a huge box.

Hair fell across his face, not pulled back and out of the way like he usually wore it, ebony strands marring his vision. He was about to move a hand back to sweep away the obstruction, but as his fingers twitched from the impulse, pain shot down and clamped upon his wrist, forcing it immobile. If he moved at all, the pain would just be too much. Ravendor sunk back into the pillow, sighing away his disappointment. He would be stuck there for a long while.

Then he noticed the brushing.

It was unlike anything he could properly describe, a gentle pulling across his back that did not bring with it all the catalysts of pain, but the immediate opposite. It nullified all the ache he felt and brought a pleasing numbing sensation to settle over his entire body, making Ravendor feel sleepy once more. It did not feel _right_, that was the truth, but Ravendor smiled from the delicate tingles it sent all the way down his back and along muscles he did not remember that he owned.

Hearing the sound of wood scraping roughly on the floor, he registered that his hearing had not been damaged in the least and guessed the cause of the noise, finding himself correct. Ravendor felt the brushing stop momentarily as a timber chair was pulled back, the person at his bedside folding a pair of hands in their lap. He was not alone in the room. "Ah, so you finally woke up. Good evening." The voice was ladylike and sweet, he vaguely remembered hearing it only a very short time ago, amidst the chaos that had seized his mind and denied him death. He thought it was only a dream, was it… real?

The first words he spoke were mortifyingly cliché. "W-where am I?" He whispered into his pillow, barely having the strength to lift his own head. Fingers curling into a corner of his blanket, he spoke to the voice again. "Why do I hurt all over?" He had never ached so much before, not even when his father used to beat him as a child. What had happened? He remembered being crushed… and…

The brushing began again and this time Ravendor distinctly felt a warm hand being placed on his shoulder for condolence, the digits small and tapered. "It is not surprising that you hurt," The voice said, tenderly rubbing away the pain in his back, "But the hurt will not last forever. I estimate you should feel as right as rain by tomorrow morning, just relax until then." Letting her free hand splay outward, she pressed her thumb along the muscles at the edge of Ravendor's shoulder blades, ignoring the mutilating disfigurement that Malik had bestowed upon him, then slid her fingers lower to the muscles just beneath them, pressing firmly. "As for where you are, you are in Yggdrasil, the tree of life, and my name is Melody."

"Melody…" He breathed, tasting the word in his mouth. It was euphonious and delicate, a lovely name for a woman. He wished he could see what she looked like. Ravendor made a slight movement as though he would get up, then grunted when she pressed him back down carefully with her massaging hand, guiding him back onto the bed. "Tell me what happened, please."

"Do not move, shhh…" She crooned, stopping her massage to dunk the coarse hair brush she was using into a bucket set by her feet, the clear water swirling within it bearing a thin film of crystallized panakeia and coagulated blood. Sliding the bristles along the side of the bucket, she dislodged the gunk from the brush into the water, dampening it and starting all over again. She had been doing this for a very long time. "You have just been through a very traumatic operation, do not strain yourself too hard. You are very lucky to be alive."

Ravendor's hand twitched, and looking directly to the side, he could see it was hooked up by the wrist to a strange contraption that held a bag of nearly glowing blue fluid, dripping down a clear plastic tube going straight into the veins in his arm. He should have been mortified by all this, but all his did was blink wearily, wondering what the blue stuff was. "Operation?" He asked, tugging weakly with his wrist and feeling the tube inside his arm stretch, a bizarre sensation.

"You tried to steal Diablo, didn't you?" Melody questioned him, not waiting for his answer. "But that golem is part of our resources in the formation of another experiment, and when I heard that the repository storing the artifact had collapsed, myself and my colleagues went to evaluate the damage." Moving her hand up, she caressed the nape of his neck kindly, eliciting a soft groan from the injured drifter. "We found you instead."

"… I did not mean to break it…" Ravendor wheezed, noticing how dry his throat felt, "… Accident." He coughed, the brief spasm making something behind him flare out and snap at the air, feeling a slight wind rush across his back. It didn't hurt anymore except for at the base, the muscles tight and throbbing. Melody did not touch them, for they were visibly inflamed and reddened, focussing on other areas that were taut with stress.

She ignored his words, concentrating on the brushing and massage, continuing her story. "You were nothing more than a corpse, soul barely residing in the ruined body. Using that structure for the basic blueprint of your design along with the knowledge that sleeps in the information library, Hyades, we replicated your cells and rebuilt your body, piece by piece. The blue stuff you have been coughing up is panakeia, the supplement for all the blood you have lost." Melody said this as if she were reading from off a handful of cue cards, using the informative and impersonal speech of a scientist. "You are," She continued without sensing the skepticism surrounding her patient, "A new design for humanity, an evolved level higher than we have ever ascended before. Merely a prototype, perhaps, but a great step forward in unlocking the arcane wisdom of Hyades."

The dark-haired man registered the information, but simply could not accept it, his tired eyes sliding closed at his command. How could be believe all the stuff Melody was telling him? It was ludicrous! If it were so, then he had gotten so close to death, so very close that he nearly didn't make it. That meant that this body was not his original one, but a composition between his old corpse and a synthesized copy, made by a bunch of scientists. No, he simply could not believe that. "Why did you do it? I want to die… Why did you not just let me die?" He rasped, pulling again on his IV, making the stand containing the panakeia fluid wobble.

"You have been reborn, from the shell of your old self, to a greater glory. What is your name?" Melody asked, smiling as she thought of all the possibilities the success of this experiment could bring them, power, the ability to revitalize the environment, she adjusted the glasses upon the bridge of her nose, maybe even the chance to make herself even more beautiful.

It took longer than usual for him to answer, trying to recall lost information. His name, and the things of his past seemed too far away to be remembered. In fact, he _could_ not remember. "I... I do not know..." He replied finally, hauling himself up on the bed and meeting no painful resistance this time, Melody's hand sliding off his unclothed back. The knowledge, and a great deal of his memories had disappeared, gone. His name was one of those memories. Sitting on his knees with both hands pressed into the soft yet firm mattress, the warm blanket slid off and he felt something was terribly amiss. "My back feels funny… What is wrong?" The drifter turned to Melody, catching his first glimpse of the rather bookish young woman seated by the side of the bed, holding a brush that was slicked with panakeia and blood. Her white lab coat covered her comely figure, with a pair of tiny glasses that made her look every inch the capable scientist. Her face was neutral.

Slowly, she pointed to the right of Ravendor's side with a finely manicured finger, a bemused smile playing on her lips. "There is a mirror over there," She said calmly, "Take a look." Without preparing himself for the shock that Melody was certain he would receive, Ravendor looked almost disinterestedly into the full length mirror near the wall, and then choked out a frightened gasp, all the colour draining from his face. He could have expected a million things to affect the body the female scientist reputed to have given him, but now Ravendor actually believed that what Melody had told him was the truth. Nothing else could explain the… _change_ that had warped his previously human body. This was impossible, simply _impossible!_ He must be hallucinating, or dreaming, or _something_!

His voice went sharp, edged with fear and a little hysteria, his disrobed arms shaking, deep green eyes a tumult of emotion. "No… No, No! What is this?! What the hell have you done to me?!" He demanded, momentarily losing the ever-present shade of refinement in his voice, reverting to the pitch of a tortured soul. Transfixed, all he did was stare into the mirror, eyes wide, unable to tear his gaze away.

Melody chuckled, entertained at his response. She had expected a reaction like that, as any sane man would have done. Pushing her wicker chair away for the second time, she laid a gentle hand between Ravendor's shoulder blades, an attempt to calm him down. He did not relax in the least, and she spoke; "The blame can be placed on my colleague, Malik. He is the one who designed and engineered your… _modification_. I think he might have an unhealthy fetish about it, and I am sorry if you dislike it." It was a huge understatement. Still, it pushed forward the drive of their project nearly ten fold, something they could not have even hoped for. It was a blessing, but on Ravendor, a hideous curse.

Long shadowy pinions, iridescent and breathtaking, trailed down the nearly arched twin appendages sprouting from either side of his back, ebony feathers, the same darkish color as his raven black hair, but glistening with a magical shine every time light chose to reflect itself upon the marvelous plumage. Above that, the perfectly proportioned quills shrunk in size and elegance, each feather combined with the one set next to it creating a wall of unearthly beauty, the dazzling unlight heralding the birth of an angel. A dark angel.

The feathers ruffled as Ravendor looked upon them, feeling every inch of his skin catching a fierce case of the goosebumps. His lips parted in a silent gape, trying to form the words that would never come. He had wings, the extra limbs attached to the shoulder blades at his back, flared out and almost toying with the stagnant air in the room. They looked like the regal plumage of Kestorael, but on a much larger scale. And also, poking out from the bedcovers, a long scaly tail hung off the side of the bed, half-heartedly coiled around one of the bed's leg posts. It was tipped with a deadly-looking spike. Ravendor's hand jerked over to cradle his arm lashed to the IV stand, a motion to hide the intense shivering he was doing. What Melody said was true, it was _all_ true.

"Why… did you do this to me? There must have been… others you could prey on." Voice barely above a whisper, Ravendor gritted his teeth and looked sharply away, feeling the ache even more so, now that he knew the reason for it's presence. The shocks of pain were from his wings, still tender at their violent birth. The right wing was damaged from the sharp glass that made up his old cocoon, a long gash running between the inner tertiary feathers that had crusted up and was only beginning to heal. Bile rose up in the back of Ravendor's throat and he forced it down again, trying to regain his composure and calm.

Shaking her head, Melody waved the hand that bore the brush slightly, her fingers moving from the small of his back to the edge of his right wing, the ebony feathers feeling cool and beyond silky, but still a little damp. Malik sure knew how to create beauty when he tried hard enough, yes, this was beyond beautiful. "Circumstance brought you here. If you had not destroyed that ruin, then you would still be human today. The only one you can blame is the one responsible for that disaster. As for myself and my colleagues, we saved your life."

He lowered his hands, wings similarly drooping onto the bed. What had happened, he no longer had any control over the past, it was out of his power. For the first time in a long while, Ravendor didn't know what to do. Melody was right, the only person he could blame was the destroyer of Diablo's ruin. His eyes narrowed, a corrupt glint forming within the emerald depths. "Clive…" He mouthed to himself, hands balling into fists. He remembered _that_ part of his life perfectly. If it were not enough to deny him his sought after death, or mock and crush his feelings by stealing one of the only few women he had ever loved away, _now_ he had to live like this because of that naive fool's stupidity? Ravendor bowed his head, refusing to look again into the mirror, abhorrent of what he knew he'd see.

Melody watched as all the strength seemed to flow right out of him, as if he had lost the sense to even care about himself. His hand tugged one last time at the IV sustaining his system with panakeia, his shoulders twitching with the first and only audible sob she would ever hear him make. Delicately, she reached over the base of the wings and pushed him gently back down onto the bed by the shoulders, meeting no resistance. It seemed that the poor man was in a numbing state of shock. "Do not think too deeply about it," She advised in her extravagantly sweet voice, "You are still exhausted from the operation. What you need to do is sleep, lie down and rest. Things always look better in the morning."

Would there even be a morning for him? He didn't know, he felt a nauseous feeling pulling him to the earth, like an eternal force governing all was rejecting him out of existence. Ravendor wouldn't have minded this, if it let him die, but he still remained in this alien-like room with a girl he had never met before. Well, shit. He just didn't care anymore. Obeying the scientist, Ravendor relaxed onto the soft bed, lying in a prone position similar to the way he had woken up, refraining from resting on his back or side just in case it hurt his sore wings. "What shall become of me?" He asked himself, the woman nearby mistaking the question as one directed at her.

"It depends on what the Council of Seven decides." She answered him, setting the brush down by a small table and picking up a loose tooth comb. "But do not worry about that now. It is not important." Obviously, they would have to run some tests on the man, as what would be expected, but after that, not even Melody herself knew what would happen. Had anyone even thought about that yet? Werner had been against the Dark Angel Project from day one, tolerating it only because the liberated material from the tests would further animate the Adam Kadmon experiment he and Elliot were so adamant about. So what would Werner say about this? Another string of moral ethics, perhaps?

Shifting his gaze to his left arm left dangling off the side of the bed, Ravendor still saw that odd chain of wording written neatly across his arm, it had not smudged or faded, guessing that the darkly inked words there would be permanent. When he felt stronger, he would try and read them. The brushing began anew, and this time Ravendor knew where the sensation was coming from. "What… are you doing?" He asked, feeling the comb slide through the feathers on his back.

"Panakeia crystallizes very easily in the open air, and so too does blood coagulate. I have to brush the foreign substances out of your wings so an infection does not spread, and also," She added with a muted smirk, "It must be making you feel very itchy right about now." Concentrating on the sensations his new limbs were picking up, he could not help but notice that she was correct, some of the quills had dried-up gunk attached to their sides and it was making him feel a little bit itchy. The muscles in his wings twitched every so often as Melody drew the comb against the sensitive and newborn skin underneath the shadow wreathed plumage, but not from pain, a soft moan escaped from Ravendor's throat, it felt heavenly. Finally, after such trial and tribulation, Ravendor closed his eyes and did not open them again until the next morning, sent away into temporary oblivion by a deep slumber.

A short time later she paused, becoming still to feel the steady rise and fall of Ravendor's breathing beneath her hand, smiling. "And so, this will only be the beginning." She said, quoting Leehalt's words. Yggdrasil was almost completed, would it be an ark to save all of mankind, or a failure that would rot in the desert until the world ended? And what of this poor creature sleeping in front of her? Would Filgaia have a place for him in their noble reality, for all of them once their evolution was complete?

If wisdom was indeed the true word of the gods, then evolution awaited them all.


	76. To Measure The Heart's Turbulence

Ravendor stared at the ground, forcing his body to conceal the small trembles that spread throughout his system at the retelling of that memory. It had been over ten years ago, but it seemed far, _far_ closer than that. The bandit leader knew that according to a small and easily frightened part of his mind, he had never left that era of time. That fragment of him had stayed behind, and in it's place, the programming that the Council had forced inside his head lingered, in the shape of Project Dark Angel. The hated and most despised part of his soul, who had followed orders without a moment's hesitation, performed the most sordid acts on command, and enjoyed every single moment of it.

"So there you have it." He rasped, his throat feeling dry and scratchy, his voice sounding wounded and unsure. "That is what I have become after such modifications and torture. I will never forget the torture. I am only one out of five people who can remember Filgaia before Yggdrasil stole away the memories of the humans and ate part of Filgaia's soul in an attempt to revitalize one small area of her surface. I am the last, and most powerful Prophet…" He smiled ironically, his mind connecting onto one small part of his programming. "I am the one who will carry out the will of God."

Clive had been silent throughout all of this revelation, but the way he was gripping his sword suggested a great pressure was being placed upon the metal, focussing his emotional response on that one small part of his body. When he spoke, it was with great deliberation and thought. "I wondered, as I traveled to this place in search of my daughter, as to why, after eleven years of continued life, that you did not try to contact us and if you avoided Catherine and I on purpose. I see the reason for your absence now. Ravendor, such a terrible thing was never meant to happen… If I had known about it, I-"

"Would have done something about it?" Ravendor suggested with a crooked smile, amused at Clive's reaction. "It does not matter anymore. After all, nobody can change the past. I suppose there are some upsides to this shape at times, upsides that a mere human cannot have. Do you understand the true origin of the human race? Humans are merely demons before their completion, a lower and far weaker branch of the demon race. Almost worthless." He glanced at Virginia and the others like a duke would look upon scraggily peasants, with utter distaste. "In the will and vision of the one God, which composes all of the Guardians wishes, humans are a corrupt abhorrence which must be cleansed, preferably, by the fires of Hades."

"Ravendor…" Catherine finally spoke, making a motion that looked like she was trying to reach out to him, which broke off halfway. "You honestly don't mean that… do you? You… you were born as a human, just like the rest of us. I know humans have done horrible things to one another, but in all the sin we have accumulated, there is still some innocence in there… somewhere…" As she said this, her eyes strayed to Kaitlyn, quietly shedding tears by Ravendor's side. The only desire she had was to run to her daughter and hold her, but Ravendor's presence held her back, because it radiated a cold kind of animosity and bitterness, as though his aura was repelling her.

"Perhaps so, Catherine, but in the majority, humans are such pathetic, disgusting creatures." Ravendor said acidly, forcing himself to look at a rock that was slightly off center from Clive and the others. "They desire only what they cannot have, and when they realise this fact, they mutilate the object of their desire and weaken it, taking it then by force. Filgaia has suffered for _so_ long due to the arrival of the human race, this planet was green once, and water flowed in great amounts to make oceans. Filgaia is a shadow of her former self, and she cries out to be released from the chains that humanity has forged for her, and I for one can ignore her cries no longer. Humans are responsible for this, and so it is the humans that shall pay." He removed his hold on Kaitlyn momentarily, taking note of Virginia, Jet, Gallows and Dario all lined up a small distance behind Clive and Catherine. He did not require their presence anymore.

He clenched his fist tightly for a few moments, concentrating, and dark reddish arcs of electricity burst into life and trailed around his arm, doubling back and collecting in his palm once he opened his hand again, the runes along his arm glowing as the technique was activated. The electricity took the shape of a few of the runes, and Ravendor said something foreign and arcane softly underneath his breath, making Clive stiffen a little as he caught the meaning of some of the words. Jumpstarted, the lightning flew out of his palm and struck like a thunderbolt at an area of the ceiling above their heads, a hideous boom of thunder echoing out throughout the entire room. Pebbles shattered by the lightning began to rain down upon the Maxwell Gang, Jet looked up and in his weakened state he cursed feebly, he guessing what was going to happen next, but had not the strength to prevent it. Gallows cursed as well, but it was louder and more frantic. Virginia was silent in her revelation and Dario threw himself onto the floor, his hands over his head and shaking.

Boulders fell and smashed into the ground with a veritable avalanche of momentum and sound, on top of the four humans that stood beneath it, pulverizing, crushing and grinding the fragile bodies underneath. Catherine turned and let out a small cry of horror, prevented of running to them by Clive's hand holding her wrist, keeping her next to him. The swordsman did not turn around, though it pained him deeply to act so coldheartedly. The only thing that he could do was pray that Virginia, who bore the earth medium, had acted in time. Clive had an urge to straighten his glasses, which he did not carry out because both his hands were occupied with his weapon and his wife, and he did not take his eyes off Ravendor who stood in front and above him. The-dark haired man laughed. "And so it all returns to soil." He said calmly, spreading his arms and wings.

The swordsman was no longer in the mood for fun and games. This had gone on for far too long. He had had enough. "Well, that is very impressive, Ravendor." Clive said trivially. "But it is no more than what a bearer of the medium can accomplish. I don't doubt that you can do better, but I urge you to get to a point. What is it that you want?" Ravendor did not answer verbally, but turned his head to the right, pointing to the left side of his face, where the demon writing had been written there, like an excerpt from a book of arcane magic.

Clive narrowed his eyes as he read over the fragment of runic text branded onto Ravendor's cheek, concentrating a little because his demon linguistics were rather rusty from misuse. Deciphering the sentence took a few good seconds, and the swordsman clenched his fists tightly, automatically holding his breath. Those words had obviously been tattooed there by somebody with only a basic knowledge of the language, but it still made grammatical sense. "Sefirot floor two, Yggdrasil level two. Crown two. _Yesod_, form of _Yesod_, death angel. Project Dark Angel. God's Messenger of darkness and air. Isotope, _Yhvh Tzabaoth_. Engineer, Malik Benedict." He moved his lips in the formation of the sentence but did not make a sound, physically feeling the colour drain from his own face. There was more, much more, but he did not repeat this part aloud. It was far too terrible. He now had a slightly clearer idea why Ravendor hated him so. "Malik?" Clive questioned softly to Ravendor, without any hatred or revulsion in his voice. "Oh my Guardians… I didn't think, I mean… you-" He would have never known, but it seemed that Malik liked to gloat about his work. In his surprise he let go of Catherine's hand, and the woman ran to the others, buried under a heap of rock and stone.

"Do not say anything more." Ravendor hissed icily, digging his claws into Kaitlyn's shoulder deeply enough to make her whimper pitifully. He realised what he was doing and loosened his grip half a second later, but the glare he was giving Clive was unmistakable. Not even the devil himself could have glowered so darkly. "If you mention Malik to me so casually like that, if you even say his _name_ to me one more time, I will not just kill your daughter, I'll tear her limb from limb." His voice was almost trembling with restrained emotion, pure anger. However, a blush was spreading across Ravendor's cheeks and underneath his tattoos, Clive's understanding had struck a very deep vein. What Malik had forced him to do when he had no free will was horrible enough, the thought of Clive knowing about it as well, instilled enough anger and rage in Ravendor's heart. But instead, he half-smiled, which in itself was almost terrifying to look at. "So, you can read demonic script? I did not know that. Hah, you actually have something to work to your advantage, at least now you will not have the odds so horribly against you."

He picked up the little girl in front of him and leapt effortlessly down to meet the others, wanting to speak with them on the same level of ground. After setting Kaitlyn back onto the floor, he lingered a bit and whispered something quietly in her ear, words that only Kaitlyn was supposed to hear. "When I let go of your shoulder, Kaitlyn, I want you to run as fast as you can over to your mother, and do not look back. Do you understand me?" She nodded slightly after a few seconds and Ravendor straightened, taking in a calming breath and sizing them all up. Clive unsheathed his sword, but the look on his face was no longer one of anger or hatred, it almost looked pitying. Ravendor clenched his teeth. Was Clive _pitying_ him?

The bandit leader banished his anger for a little while. He would have better use for it later. "I suppose you must think this is funny, Winslett." He sneered, "But there is nothing I can do to change the past. I am not going to dwell on Kaitlyn's death, or the years of vicious beatings, or Malik turning me into this _monster _anymore. The only time I can alter is the future, and the future I envision is a Filgaia freed from all humans, and especially freed from _you_. Maybe if I can save at least _one_ important life from being polluted, then my existence here would not have been totally worthless after all. I will start the culling of the human race with you, Clive, please step forward."

The swordsman made absolutely no motion to obey Ravendor's command. His tone was low, soft and did not vary in volume or pitch. He lowered his weapon and shook his head in refusal. "No," Clive said carefully, "I do not want to fight you. You are not the Ravendor Begucci that I can remember from our past. The _real_ Ravendor would have laughed at such a stupid and impossible idea. Do you honestly believe that the death of thousands can be justified by one lofty ideal?" He couldn't help but let his voice take in a sympathetic tone. "Foolish. So very foolish. Filgaia _needs_ the human race to keep herself alive. Without the neosapiens to be the sentient life on this planet, it is the humans that define Filgaia's individuality and comprise her soul. You think you are helping her, but in truth you aim to destroy her."

Ravendor shrugged. "Say whatever you will. I should have known better than to reason with Twister trash. If I cannot justify the wave of murder I plan to impart upon the human race on a nobler ideal, then perhaps I should just say that I will do it simply because I _want_ to. Is that good enough for you, my _friend_?" He accentuated the word 'friend' with a terribly amiable tone, enjoying the reaction it placed on Clive's face. "In any case, before you get too ahead of yourself, do you not desire to have your daughter back? I have her right here, do you want her?" He looked down at the girl, and forced her to take a step forward, but he still did not let go of the grip upon her shoulder. "I have an idea. Do you wish to listen to my idea? I propose a trade."

"A trade?" Clive asked, curious but cautious. He didn't think he had anything other than his life that Ravendor wanted, but he also knew that he had to play along with Ravendor's game in order to make sure Kaitlyn emerged safe and sound. He heard Catherine scrabbling at the fallen rocks behind him to rescue the allies trapped underneath the veil of stone and rubble, but did not allow himself to turn around and expose his back to his enemy, no matter how much he wished to help her. Clive could only hope that the others would be alright.

The winged demon holstered the ARM that had been pressing uncomfortably into Kaitlyn's back, the girl exhaling a held-in breath, feeling better with the gun's absence. Ravendor nodded. "Indeed, a trade. I will return you daughter back to you in perfect heath, on one minor condition. You must give me your solemn word that you will fight me to the death, and that you will not hold back or allow yourself to be destroyed. This shall also give you a chance to do away with me, Clive, if that is what you desire. What say you?"

Clive gave him a small and very curt laugh, rubbing his chin a little as he mulled over Ravendor's proposal. There wasn't really much to think about, he didn't care about his life if it did not involve Kaitlyn, and he would easily gamble it away as long as her life was out of harm's way. "You can guarantee the lives of my wife and daughter, should I agree to this bargain?" He asked, wanting to make sure that he understood what Ravendor was talking about. The other demon nodded, and Clive let out a beaten sigh. "Very well. I accept your proposal, Ravendor. I will fight you."

Keeping his word, Ravendor let go of Kaitlyn's shoulder and the little girl left his side and ran crying to her mother, Catherine catching her in her arms just as she turned around, her hands caked with dust at trying to remove the boulders crushing her fellow teammates. Kaitlyn sobbed harshly into the front of Catherine's dress, and the force of the girl's weight made Catherine sit down on the floor, hugging her daughter and crying herself. Clive felt relief flood through his system, it seemed that Ravendor still kept his word, and had some semblance of honor left within him. He had held up his end of the bargain, and now it was time for Clive to do the same. He stepped forward, assuming an attack stance. "Virginia and the others?" He asked.

Ravendor slowly walked towards him, each step he took was gradual and deliberate, the sound of his footsteps all consuming in the air around them. "Not dead. The girl was intelligent enough to nullify the elemental properties of the attack, and the priest encased them in a protective magnarizative shield. However, they shall neither bother nor hinder this battle." As Ravendor moved, a curious thing was happening to his wings, which were half-opened at both sides of his body. The black feathers that reflected the dim light of the cavern were hardening and becoming rigid, changing their substance from soft strands of feathers to a steeled obsidian metal, gleaming and incredibly sharp, edged like a razor and twice as dangerous.

He halted only a foot away from Clive, the temperature dropping to a freezing cold level. Though, unlike the incident with Romero, Ravendor was not upset, he was smiling like one who understood the truth, and held all the power in the entire world in the palm of his hand. Clive raised his sword a little, and held onto it even tighter than before. Reaching over to one of his sides, Ravendor plucked out a medium-sized feather and stared almost disinterestedly at it, holding it at the end and twisting it around like a small leaf. Then, he leaned over towards Clive and ran the edge of the feather dart along Clive's cheek, drawing a long shallow cut and a stream of fresh black blood. Clive didn't move, still calculating Ravendor's attack.

It took nearly everything he had to prevent himself from recoiling at the bandit leader's touch, as he traced the swordsman's cut with the blunt part of a talon, smearing the blood along Clive's cheek. Withdrawing his hand, Ravendor looked at the traces of blood upon his fingertip and then tentatively licked it with the tip of his tongue, silently making an evaluation. "Demon blood." He said at last, smiling creepily. "How interesting. We always seem to mimic each other, don't we Clive? I am not going to ask you for the reason why this is so, because I have already condemned you to death in my mind, and dead men tell no tales."

"This will be the final battle?" Clive asked, ignoring the slight stinging sensation as his healing factor closed up the small wound Ravendor had made. He watched his enemy take a couple of steps away from him, widening the field in which they would battle. Then Ravendor paused, turned back to Clive and made a motion indicating that the swordsman should follow, which Clive did, awkwardly keeping in step with Ravendor as they moved away from Catherine and Kaitlyn. Catherine called out to Clive as he left them, but the swordsman did not turn around or even stop walking. If he survived this next battle, then he would have a chance to go back and apologize to her for his callousness. Until then, he ignored her.

It felt strange to walk beside Clive again, Ravendor thought. He had not done it since they were both much younger, but now, it was a walk towards death row. Only one of them would come out alive again. "Yes." Ravendor replied softly. "I do not expect that another fight will occur after this one, unless one of us manages to survive past the grave."

"I see. Ravendor… If I die, will you take Catherine and Kaitlyn home for me?" Clive asked, wondering why he was asking for a favor from the one he had just promised to destroy.

The winged demon chuckled. "You do understand that I swore to kill all humans, right?"

"I know, but please? I ask you, do not hurt them until you have no choice." He pressed.

"…Whether human or demon, you always confuse and complicate things, Clive Winslett. Very well. I will do it, if that is what you truly want." Ravendor answered, finding his place and coming to a halt. Now, they were facing each other, a space of about ten or twenty yards separating the two combatants. One, the demon of light, armed with a sword that drank in the darkness and converted it into light and life energy, and the other, the angel of darkness, tendrils of shadow wreathing his body as he flared his wings, dark electricity crackling in the air around him.

For one of them, this would be the ultimate end.


	77. Wings Blacker Than Death Outstretched

Catherine's fingers were numb and stinging as she hooked them around a sizeable stone and pulled, trying to dislodge it from it's place. It came loose and tumbled to the side, creating a small rockslide where many more of it's brethren replaced it admirably, packing the pile in even tighter. The ex-drifter bit her lip as she then worked upon these rocks, her hands bleeding a little and aching badly. Her friends were under that tomb of stone, and she had no idea if they were still alive or dead. Kaitlyn was helping her mother with some of the small stones, but was really doing no better than Catherine herself. Both of them were crying.

However, they were ignored by the two demons a long way away, and that was probably the best thing for them, what both demons wanted for them, to make sure that Catherine and Kaitlyn remained unharmed. The fight that they were about to start was only between themselves and nobody else. Ravendor cracked his knuckles and pulled back the sleeves of his white jacket back a little, so they would not hinder him as he fought. He had no qualms with melee combat, putting confidence in his physical strength. Ravendor was not a large or a broad man at all, he had a body-build quite similar to Clive's, not lanky, but not solidly built as well. He would still be a formidable opponent.

Clive, surprisingly, struck first. Sprinting the length of the battlefield, he brought Kuronegaiken high above his head and slashed downwards upon Ravendor's body, as the dark-haired man had chosen to begin the battle in a defensive stance. Ravendor's eyes were calmly closed as if in some kind of mediation, his hands in his coat pockets with his wings half-spread around him. The swordsman let out a battle cry as the air around the blade tore with the momentum, the muscles in his arms screaming as he extended as much energy into the handling of his weapon as he possibly could. Clive felt the sword impact against something equally tough and hard and did not yield ground to the movements of his blade. This was unusual, nothing he had even known from before had been able to stand against one of his focussed attacks, at least, nothing human.

It felt as though he had hit a wall of impervious metal, thick enough to be an effective shield. Sparks burst into life as Kuronegaiken grated against the back of one of Ravendor's black wings, stretched across his vulnerable front to protect him from Clive's attacks. The metallic substance of each individual feather set against one another was like a layer of strong scale armor which repelled physical blows. The swordsman narrowed his eyes. So _that_ was the purpose behind Ravendor's wings, they were his shield. Stepping backwards, Clive pulled his sword away and planned his next move. He couldn't really do much until he had a better idea of Ravendor's capabilities. He found out, only moments later, that they were far more than a shield. Slowly, the wing pulled back, until it revealed half of Ravendor's face, so Clive could see the murderous glint in his eye. The bandit leader said only one word; "Die."

His reflexes ordered him out of the way just in time, only nanoseconds before the edge of one wing lashed out at him like a reaper's scythe, missing Clive's face and cutting into a section of the wall, scarring it deeply with a long diagonal cut. Clive felt the air move past him as Ravendor attacked and was amazed, he had never seen _anybody_ move like that before, not even himself or Boomerang. It was almost physically impossible. Clive had sidestepped and watched Ravendor pull his wing out of the earthly wound, now turning towards his enemy once more. The cut had been perfect, without obstruction. The edges of those feathers must have been as sharp as, if not sharper, than Kuronegaiken herself.

No, Clive told himself sternly, _He cannot best me. No matter how powerful the Prophets made him, he is still only a **synthetic** demon, not complete, not whole. A fake cannot stand up to the real thing… I hope…_

When Ravendor struck again, Clive did not jump out of the way, but decided to test his theory. He brought Kuronegaiken up into a defensive block and dug his heels into the dirt, the edge of the wing smashing against his blade and locking against one another, struggling for dominance. The swordsman grunted as his hands were gradually forced into his stomach, and the rest of his body was slowly pushed into the wall. Then, from out of nowhere, something dark and deadly raked him across his front and Clive screamed, streams of his blood splattering onto his front and in the air. Long gashes ripped his shirt up even further, Clive recognizing the wounds as claw marks the moment he first felt them. They were nowhere near as painful or as damaging as his own had been, but they were enough to make him bleed and grit his teeth with repressed suffering.

Cursing, Clive yielded to the weapons lock and slid himself to the side, barely avoiding another attack. He had been stupid, he had totally forgotten that Ravendor's claws were just as deadly as his wings, and while one part of his body could be defending, the other could be preparing for an attack. Feeling his blood trickle down his already torn shirt, Clive jumped several feet into the air, moving like an acrobat, as the spiked end of Ravendor's tail flailed at him like a poisonous whip, nearly hitting him in the side. Using gravity as an aid, Clive angled himself down, drawing again on Boomerang's moderate knowledge of martial arts, and kicked Ravendor hard in the shoulder, getting him above the protection of his wings.

A sense of euphoric triumph streaked through his mind when he heard Ravendor grunt from the impact, but then something strange seemed to alter itself around them and the bandit leader was suddenly far away from him, having retreated without wasting more than half a second in time. Clive touched down without complication and stood back up, holding his sword in the defensive position again. If it were not for the fact that he had seen that move being made a thousand times before, if not to retreat, then in other ways, he would have been baffled. But Clive knew an accelerator technique when he saw one. The metal demon smiled, so _this_ was where Jet had learnt that art, from Ravendor himself. How interesting.

His wings wide open and his body exposed to an attack, Clive watched Ravendor reach a claw into one of the inner pockets of his jacket and take a hold of something, while his poisonous green eyes did not linger from their fixed direction, piercing into Clive soul. Taking steps towards his foe, the swordsman raised his weapon once more, his breathing labored because every intake of breath forced the wounds on his front to reopen, though his healing factor kept on trying to stitch him back together again. "Don't use… strategies that I can recognize… Ravendor…" He warned, smiling a little.

"Very well," Ravendor agreed jovially, making a strange motion with his hand and wrist. "Will this do?" He asked. A heartbeat later, before Clive could react, something insanely sharp and thin neatly entered Clive's throat, piercing through the pale skin of his neck and imbedding itself in his spine. Clive staggered from the presence of the violating object, suddenly unable to breathe properly. Stumbling backwards into the wall, he raised his free hand to his throat and felt the outline of a long metal flight feather embedded in his neck, cleanly bisecting his larynx and drawing only a little blood. It was painless, he felt hardly any pain, indicating a precise aim and a perfect hit. Ravendor strode up to Clive, trembling against the wall. The metal demon tried to suck in a breath, but felt the air whistle out of the wound in his neck, gurgling a little as he tried to breathe around the intrusive feather.

The blood from his wound trickled down his windpipe, choking him for a second. That was all it took. He coughed hard, causing the imbedded dart to further cut his flesh. He gasped, which only sucked in more choking blood. Coughing harder, Clive scrabbled at the obstruction madly to yank it out, but a metal-plated claw grabbed his hand and pinned it away from his neck, pressing it into the wall. Ravendor smiled, he was enjoying this. Tears were beading at the corners of Clive's eyes when Ravendor spoke, wrenching Kuronegaiken from out of his foe's grip, and dropping it to the side where Clive could no longer reach it. "You know, I always love a good bit of torture before I kill somebody, it shows that I care." He chuckled, letting go of one of Clive's wrists in order to pluck a larger and longer feather from one wing, looking more like a black knife blade than a simple throwing dart.

"…Yo…u… insane…" Clive whispered. His hands were clenched into fists, all his energy put into trying to breathe without inhaling more blood. Ravendor carefully stretched out Clive's arm and forced his hand to open and expose his palm, slicked with a little of his own blood. Smiling sadistically, the winged demon jammed the long metal pinion into Clive's palm, firmly enough that it would also dig into the rock wall and function like a nail, holding him there. The swordsman howled out in agony, his fingers twitching as pain exploded in his hand, and from his cries, he descended into a fit of choking coughs, gurgling feebly as the dart shredded his throat even more. Blood began to course out of the corner of his mouth and around the wound, so painful, so torturous that Clive barely felt it when Ravendor stretched out his other arm and performed the same terrible procedure to his left hand, pinned there firmly enough that Ravendor didn't have to hold him up anymore. With one final, swift movement, he removed the feather dart slowly choking his enemy, a string of thick black blood dripping off the end of the metallic tool as he dropped it to one side, to rest along with the sword.

The pain lessening a little, and the object blocking his windpipe now gone, Clive opened his eyes and pulled weakly at his restraints, growling as they caused more blood to spill forth from his hands. He was trapped. Unable to talk for the time being, he resigned himself to stare at Ravendor maliciously, his bushy fox-like tail repeatedly hitting itself against the stone wall in anger. Feeling sick, Clive bit the inside of his cheek when Ravendor carefully sunk his talons into the sides of Clive's neck, the winged demon leaning forward as he wanted to speak to Clive more closely. "I've wanted this to happen for _so_ long, Clive Winslett. I have waited to hear you scream, to be in agony, to finally pay for all the injustices you have committed upon me. You always seemed to be beyond pain and despair, inhumanly so, so I wonder if you can keep up that image, even now?" Because Clive was pinned one or two inches higher than his height, the swordsman's feet dangled a little off the ground, which meant that Ravendor had to stand slightly on tip-toe to look at his enemy face-to-face. The winged demon regarded Clive's wounded neck curiously, sadistically, in a way that was far too uncomfortable for Clive.

"I don't suppose you know that most demons are… slightly vampiric… do you?" He asked his enemy softly, tilting Clive's neck up to expose his throat a little more. The wound was knitting itself back together as time went by, which made it easier for Clive to breathe by the second, but some blood was still smeared down his neck, collecting in the hollow of his throat. All of the colour drained from Clive's face. Ravendor was not seriously considering _that_, was he? Of course he knew that certain kinds of demons drank blood, that was why all demons had small, vestigial fangs, but Boomerang had not been one of them. The idea was repulsive, in his mind. If only he could just get away… pick up his sword, and…

"However," Ravendor continued, removing his hand from Clive's neck and taking a step away, regarding his enemy hanging there, totally helpless. "Your blood to me is very bitter, disgusting, tainted with your pitiful excuse for a soul. I have other plans for you instead. Why don't you… taste this?" He raised his hand and dark electricity sprung from Ravendor's body to Clive's, the twin feather darts holding Clive in place acting like lightning rods, welcoming the shadowy energy into the swordsman's body. Clive's screams were drowned out by the crackle and fizz of the electricity and static in the air, and when the torture finally ebbed into mere painful tingles, he slumped weakly, his head lolling to one side as blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth in a sad little stream.

Quietly, weakly, like the faint echo of a whisper, he tried to say something. The hole in his throat had finally disappeared for good, but he couldn't speak without his voice breaking and he coughed frequently. Ravendor, curious, tried to listen. It sounded like Clive was attempting to say a singular word, but got stuck and ran out of strength as he tried to work through the syllables. Tears of pain mingled with his blood, dripping down his chin. "D…d…dev…de…deva…stt…atee…" He wheezed, clenching one hand into a fist, which tore open his wound even more.

"Excuse me?" Ravendor said pleasantly. "You'll have to speak up, I cannot hear you very well." Clive opened one eye, still gritting his teeth like he was still in the abyss of agony, but curiously, he smirked, letting out a short laugh that was combined with a cough. The metal demon again rasped something quietly to himself, feeling the ache of the wounds in his hands now that the dart had been taken out of his neck. They had pierced him completely, and a small amount of nerve damage was making his fingers twitch unpleasantly. Then, taking in a deep breath, he cried out at the top of his lungs;

"DEVASTATE!"

Light compressed itself into a tiny space in front of Clive's body and then exploded like a supernova of brightness, a solar flare which drowned out and banished the darkness for a short amount of time, exposing every nook and cranny of the darkened room. Clive had closed his eyes and had tried his best to turn his head away from the attack, to protect his vision, but Ravendor had not been aware and received the brunt of the arcana, staggering back and crossing his arms over his face to cover his eyes. The bandit leader lost his footing and fell onto his side, blinded. This was the chance that Clive needed. He did not have much time to escape.

The nerves in his hands screamed mindlessly as he pressed both his wounds further into the thin and deadly black metal, pinned by the twin feather darts. His palms were cut even more, the wounds growing larger as Clive pushed his hands away from the wall, feeling every millimeter of the dart as it passed through his flesh, coming to the widest part of the object, and then sliding out of his hand easier as it reached the tip and tore away, leaving it free. Now he had a huge gaping hole in the middle of his palm, on both palms, as the other hand pulled away from it's restraint. Clive turned around to see where he had hung, the feathers were still there, embedded in the rock wall. The metal demon was bleeding like he was experiencing a stigmata, but knew that he would heal soon, and he still needed both his hands to continue fighting.

He picked up Kuronegaiken, lying on it's side in the dirt, and winced as the leather grip touched his wound, but endured it bravely. Taking the sword up with both hands, he strode up to Ravendor, lying on his side while he was still trying to recover from the devastate attack. Clive smiled, he had figured as much. If Ravendor was a nocturnal creature now, designed for night vision, then a light attack would be too much for him to handle. The swordsman turned his sword upside down, still grasping it by the handle, about to bring it down in a vicious stabbing motion in Ravendor unprotected body. Clive struck, expecting a splash-back of black demon blood…

Ravendor grabbed the blade of Kuronegaiken instead, near the middle of it's length, holding it in a grip of steel. Clenching his taloned claw tightly around the metal, it was amazing that he did not draw any blood. The material that made up his claws and wings were incredibly strong, they seemed to match up to Kuronegaiken in their toughness. Ravendor smiled and struggled to his feet, refusing to let go of Clive's sword. "Nice tactic, brilliant talent… You got me there, Clive… for a moment…" He looked at Kuronegaiken's blue and ethereally gleaming blade, seemingly pained by it's presence. Ravendor appeared to be having trouble holding onto it for much longer.

Clive's hands had gone numb, but they had stopped hurting and bleeding, which was good because the fluid had been slicking Kuronegaiken's grip, making it harder for him to hold on. The sword shone brightly in Ravendor's hand, pressing into the dark-plated metal protecting his palm. Clive could feel a thin stream of energy flow through the medium of the sword and disperse into his body, being taken from Ravendor's contact with the weapon. It was like a weaker, though permanent kind of Life Drain arcana, and Ravendor was the target, this time. Clive's voice was scratchy, but it worked much better than before. "Kuronegaiken enjoys the taste of your aura, Ravendor. She likes to feed off the misery of sinners the most." He said, feeling stronger by the second.

The winged demon's smile faded as he narrowed his eyes, a crack appearing along the surface of his armor, where the edge of the sword had been pressed against it severely, drawing Ravendor's blood. It trickled down his palm and he was forced to let go, pushing away from the weapon and taking a backwards leap so that he stood a few yards away, at a moderate distance. Clive ran after him again and easily dodged a slice made by Ravendor's left wing, intercepting the right with a parry and then ducking a little as the bleeding claw made a swipe for Clive's face. The metal demon smashed his weapon against the shield of Ravendor's outer wing, dealing no damage, but developed an idea in the process, jumping out of the way of a blow that would have sliced one of his arms cleanly off.

When Ravendor struck at his body again, Clive dodged it with a moderate amount of trouble and instead of lashing out at one of Ravendor wings for a near pointless attack, the swordsman jumped back and landed in a crouch, throwing himself forward in a small roll, making sure he did not cut himself with his own weapon, and snuck _under _Ravendor's wings for his next attack, accidentally grazing one of the longer razor-sharp flight feathers and cutting him in the side. Instead of getting up, Clive raised Kuronegaiken and stabbed blindly at Ravendor's body, hoping to make a hit. He felt the flare of exhilarated pleasure in Kuronegaiken's blade, dizzily happy at the shedding of another's blood. That sensation ran up Clive's arm, and the metal demon looked up, holding his blade with only one arm, the other braced against the ground. Blood was pooling around him, pattering onto the dusty floor. Ravendor's wings changed back from their rigid metal state to soft harmless feathers once more. The bandit leader coughed, moving his hand down to touch his stomach.

The ancient demon sword had pierced him straight through his body, poking out the other side. It drank in whatever blood it could, and let the rest spill down without heed. A shudder went through Ravendor's body as Clive stood up, pushing Ravendor's wings away as they could no longer hurt him. The dark-haired man looked bewildered and unattached to reality, but carefully placed one hand upon Clive's shoulder, before looking down at his enemy with amusement. Ravendor looked impressed. Wrapping both hands around the blade, he pulled it out with a little help from Clive and stepped back, looking at the blood collecting in his metal-plated claws. "Imbecile." He said smoothly, darkly, but with mirth. "If you are going to stab a demon, then pierce them through their heart. It is their one weakness." Ravendor looked at Clive and shook his head sadly. "Pathetic." He whispered, and then vanished into a haze of dark mist.

Clive fell to one knee and cursed, the weakness of all his injuries creeping up on him. His healing factor could heal wounds over countless times, but being used so frequently slowly put a strain over his body, a weakness that made his limbs become slow and heavy, making him tired. He ran what Ravendor had just said to him over in his head, wearily adjusting his glasses. _Pathetic…_Yes, that was what he was. He was letting himself be beaten, he couldn't let that happen! Not only did the lives of his family and friends hang upon the outcome of this battle, but the lives of all humanity itself. Ravendor was not Ravendor anymore, he was just a puppet being manipulated by the programming of the Council of Seven, yes, a puppet controlled by a puppeteer who was already dead. It was beyond sad…

"Eliminate Scanner!"

He was struck in the back and was forced to his feet by the pressure of the attack, crying out as an invisible vice was clamped around his middle and squeezed mercilessly, almost strong enough to break his ribs, but not quite. Clive shook like he was being squeezed to death by Diablo itself, but shakily forced himself to turn around, seeing Ravendor behind him with his arms out and hands spaced properly to distribute the technique, putting a great portion of his energy into the skill. Ravendor laughed. "As long as there are shadows and darkness for me to disappear into, Winslett, I shall live on!" Clive forced both hands to hold onto his blade and dug around in his memory for a counter attack, one that would nullify the effects of Ravendor's eliminate scanner. He could only think of one in his tortured state, and hoped, prayed that he had the ability to replicate it.

I hate having to do this… To perform a technique that was **her** trademark, but it seems I have no other choice… I am a demon, so this should not be out of my range to use…

It became easier to breathe all of a sudden and Clive grabbed at his throat, taking in some deep and steadying breaths. The air in front of him had thickened and gone hazy, like waves of superheated air. It took away nearly all of the power behind Ravendor's eliminate scanner and turned it into nothingness. Ravendor lowered his hands, perplexed. "That is Melody's energy shield…" He said, walking towards Clive but still keeping his distance. "How are you able to copy her skills?" His demeanor blackened. "Tell me now!"

Clive coughed blood onto his hand as he held it over his mouth, his knees feeling weak and unsteady. He smirked, enjoying Ravendor's confusion, and the effect it seemed to have on his emotions. "Yes… Melody…" He rasped, wiping a smear of blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. "I fought her once… many times… It was my team and I… who stopped her and the Prophets from achieving their goals. You can… blame me for that as well… Ravendor… if you wish…" The swordsman laughed a little, punctuated by small coughs. It was unlike him to rub salt into another person's emotional wounds, but another part of him was quite enjoying the taunting. Clive felt that Ravendor deserved it, for what he had already done to his family. "I don't know… how she died… but I think that I was… one of the last people to see her alive…"

Ravendor closed his eyes and seemed to relax, and as soon as the energy shield wore off, Clive retaliated with an eliminate scanner of his own, probably not as powerful as his opponent's, but still very damaging. Ravendor's right wing covered him just in time, shifting back into it's metal form, catching the attack and then extending outwards, throwing the technique into the wall. Other than this movement, Ravendor had not moved a muscle. He finally spoke, dully, tonelessly, taking steps backward and away from his enemy. "I see now…" He announced quietly. "You prevent me from ever seeing Kaitlyn again, you take Catherine away from me, you kill Melody…" He smiled wanly. "It is as if you did not ever wish to see me happy. I believe that the saddest thing is that you succeeded, Clive." He chuckled a little, and then shrugged. "I did not really want much, you see, but in the end, I got nothing. How ironic…" Ravendor laughed again, but it was harsher and more forced. "How _pathetic_…"

Limping over to the dark-haired man, Clive had to use his sword like a crutch. "That's a lie!" He exclaimed. "I never wanted that! It just… it just seemed to happen like that… it was the way things were supposed to be… even if it was not fair. I'm sorry about what I did, Ravendor, seventeen years ago. I'm sorry that I saved your life. I should have just let you die. Maybe you were supposed to die… and I just didn't see it. If you had died, then all of this would have never have happened…" Breathing hard, Clive lifted his sword up again, ready to attack. Ravendor watched him do this without making a move, with his back now up against the wall. The swordsman calmed his heart and mind, trying to clear his thoughts of all conflict. "Allow me to remedy that, Ravendor. Let me kill you now, and I can repent for the sin of allowing you to live…"

"…No."

With his back pressed against the wall, Ravendor entered a shadow and melted into it, his form shifting to match that of the darkness itself. Clive watched this happen and slashed hastily at the rippling shadow, making no more than a gash across the stone's once untouched surface. He had been too late. Remembering what had happened before, the metal demon sprinted towards an area that was far away from the walls and most of the shadows, holding his sword close to his body and tensed in case of an attack, turning himself around every few seconds to prevent another back attack. Clive anxiously held onto the frame of his glasses for a few moments. Why did Ravendor flee from him when it was _he_ himself who desired this duel in the first place?

"Let us see your confidence when you must fight in pure night!" Ravendor's voice echoed from somewhere hidden, triumphant and almost lacking sanity in it's tone. Clive glanced down at the ground above his feet just at the right time where an aqua-colored line encircled his body once, forming a perfect circle, before five different lines cut through the circle in their own direction, one line ending where another had begun, forming a human-sized pentagram which filled with runic text, demonic text. Clive did not have the time to read them as the aqua colour turned to a deep pitch black and spread out from the circle like a huge ink stain, soaking everything in darkness. It was like an infectious disease in the way it spread in the beginning, but then it picked up speed and became a rushing wind, everything it touched turning pure black. Clive now found himself the only distinguishable thing in an ocean of nothing, just like his dream world, although he was now in reality, at least _some_ kind of reality…

Ravendor's reality.


	78. Don't Be Pulled In By The Dark

(A/N: Okay, for those who haven't read it, Ravendor is quoting a fraction of a long poem written by John Milton entitled 'Paradise Lost', about the Fall, and the original sin. Similarly, he also mentions Dante from 'Dante's Inferno - _La Divina Commedia_', written by Dante Alighieri.)

Clive walked uncaringly through the fog of unnatural shadow, the manner of his stride suggested a particular intent or destination, despite knowledge that Clive had none, save for the intent of spilling Ravendor's blood. He knew that he could be attacked at any moment and there was a slight tension to his walk, a kind of springy energy that came from the last dregs of adrenaline left running through his bloodstream. The darkness felt cold on his skin and seemed to sink into his soul, only endured because his body was already existing at those temperatures in the first place.

He talked to the veil of shade in the hopes that Ravendor could also hear him, trying to sound untroubled and carefree. His breath was short because of his previous injuries, and his palms itched horribly, distractions that he did not show to the outside world. Clive smirked in a gratified manner and stopped walking, closing his eyes. "Hey Ravendor, I was just wondering if you remember the verse from Milton's 'Paradise Lost' that you always seemed to quote. Do you? You know, it does remind me of right now, this moment in time. How did it go again…?"

"For who would lose… Though full of pain… This intellectual being… The thoughts that wander throughout eternity... To perish rather, swallowed up and lost… In the deep dark womb of uncreative night." Taking the bait, Ravendor stepped out of the shadows, arms by his sides and his wings half-folded. He sighed and then shrugged. "I may have misquoted, it has been far too long since I last tried to recall that verse. I am surprised that you can remember such things at all, though it will not help you one bit where you are going. Follow Dante's example and take a guided tour of Hell. I will send you there myself."

The metal demon narrowed his eyes. "Not if I send you there first." He said, drawing his sword. Ravendor backtracked into the veil of shadow once more and became invisible to Clive's sight, existing just outside the line of vision. Now Clive could not sense the originating source of Ravendor's energy signature in the air, not even with the aid of his mediums. This would be a very difficult battle. Before everything would begin, though, he asked one last question. "Ravendor, where are we? Where have you sent us?"

The reply didn't seem to come from once direction, but from all around him. "We are in the shadow that exists upon the window of a soul. Nothing more. Nothing less." Clive's brow furrowed and he deflected a bolt of dark thunder that was directed at his body without much thought, confused. Little arcs of wayward lightning clung to the metal of his sword with tenacity, fading after contact with Kuronegaiken's spirit. Clive didn't feel anything from this except for a tiny increase in the sword's power. Homing in on the origin of the attack, Clive sprinted the short distance between it and him and slashed horizontally through the artificial night, nearly cutting a hole in the fabric of darkness itself. Refusing to halt the swing of the sword, he brought his arm up and to the left, then down, bisecting the slash in two with a vertical swipe. The effect was like a white cross in midair, which held there for half a second, and then turned blood red.

It didn't seem to have much effect when it faded away, the darkness healing over it like a small scar. Clive leapt a small distance back and waited for any kind of reaction, wondering if he had missed or not. Turning sharply to his right at a noise, picked up by his super-sensitive hearing, Clive heard the sound of a single drop of liquid fall to the ground, making tiny ripples in the velvety material coating the floor. Ravendor emerged from a shadow a short way away, his eyes dull and filled with subdued hatred. His left cheek was deeply gashed open, in the shape of the crosscut technique.

A thin stream of blood trickled down the side of his face from the cut, gashed across the branded runic tattoos and stinging a little. Ravendor wiped the blood away and watched the return journey of Clive's sword back into it's defensive position. There, Clive waited for Ravendor's retaliation. Smiling despite the small injury, the winged demon closed his eyes and caught a fistful of tangible shadow within his claws, fashioning it into a familiar-looking instrument. "Rule of Vengeance!" He shouted, taking the shadow-formed doppelganger of Kuronegaiken and mimicking Clive's last move. However, his handling of the weapon was a skill no greater than that of a novice and Clive parried him into a swordlock, the two weapons clashing upon each other with no mercy.

Clive was being forced down as Ravendor had taken to the offensive and was several shades stronger than he was. Sparks were born as the weapon and it's conjured shadow grated with each other, and the metal demon constantly searched for a good opening for him to overthrow his opponent. Clive yelped in pain as jagged-edged quills raked the side of his sword-arm, drawing blood and causing him to lose his grip. A heartbeat later Clive had deflected the strike of the shadow Kuronegaiken with a hastily put together eliminate scanner, striking Ravendor squarely in the chest.

All the breath was knocked out of his lungs and the effects of Ravendor's rule of vengeance disappeared, the fake sword degrading back into wisps of harmless shadow. As Ravendor hit the ground, his body instantly melded with the darkness and vanished, barely a nanosecond before Clive skewered the place with a deep sword-stab. Coming up empty-handed, he frowned as he pulled the sword out of the floor, warily keeping himself alert for the possibility of a back-attack. "Leehalt's move…" He whispered to himself, "I should have known…" Clive looked at the reflection of himself within Kuronegaiken's blade, his face was smeared with dirt, dust and blood, one of the lenses of his glasses had a visible crack in it, and his hair was wildly messed up from not taking care of himself properly. He looked a horrible fright.

The swordsman caught a bit of movement in the reflection of the blade that was not his and before he knew it a hand was slapped over his and another took a hold of the end of the blade and forced the sword back against Clive's throat, the flat part of the weapon pressing badly against the metal demon's windpipe. Ravendor was standing behind Clive and was holding back an insane kind of laughter, the blood dripping down his face adding to the image of a completely unhinged madman. Clive's free hand flew to his throat but could not alleviate any of the agonizing pressure, choking slightly in his futile endeavors for breath. Ravendor laughed quietly, mixed with a slightly labored breath, and then allowed the blade to bite even deeper into Clive's neck. "Try and squirm and I shall cut your throat. Struggle and you lose your life. Go ahead and try it, give me an excuse to bleed you dry."

"That… is not… going to happen!" Clive answered with a cry, jamming his elbow into Ravendor's stomach. The contact that the winged demon had made was enough to forge a suitable connection between the two auras and so the swordsman invoked the Lust Jaw one more time, calling upon the power of the medium. "Life Drain Esoteric Arcana Absolute!" He chanted while trying to focus his mind into that one focal point, to boost the effectiveness of the spell. Clive ripped his sword-arm out of Ravendor's grasp as the dark-haired man's hands went limp with the energy osmosis and managed to free himself from imminent danger. Ravendor's mind went blank for a precious moment from the arcana and Clive took that one opportunity in hand, running forward, turning around and then leaping for an aerial attack.

Clive sailed over Ravendor's head with a spring-heeled leap, intending on flipping himself over and slashing at his enemy while his back was turned, and then kicking him away and onto the floor. Ravendor foresaw this move and growled softly, cracking his long tail like a deadly bullwhip, whirling around and lashing out before Clive had a chance to strike. He boosted his speed with another accelerator technique and felt the flow of time seem to slow down around him, the adrenaline in his system giving him a burst of power like no other. There was a deep whistling crack, and blood began to flow.

It started out as a barely noticeable pain in his side, like a bee sting, but it took Clive less than a second to guess what it was and slap a hand over the injury, landing unsteadily and letting out a short expulsion of breath. The swordsman staggered back in the nick of time as Ravendor's tail removed itself from the wound and lashed out at Clive's face, drawing a thin scratch across his cheek that leaked a dark-bluish kind of poison. Ravendor followed this up with a sharp left hook and knocked Clive to the ground, kicking him fiercely once he was down.

The poison spread like wildfire through his veins and Clive doubled over, arms around his stomach and dropping his sword, holding back an agonized shriek. This was worse than any other poison he had ever experienced before, which would burn his blood and make it feel like his insides were rotting away, no, Ravendor's poison was like a liquid form of shadow, blotting out everything, making him feel empty and hollow on the inside. There was nothing, only pure darkness flowing alongside his blood, darkness and misery, despair and hopeless anguish. It was unbearable, eating away at his soul.

Clive raised a weak shaking hand to his throat and felt that the strength of his nerves fade rapidly into the multitude of shadow, while inwardly, his immune system and healing factor was working frantically to dispel the impure bodies inhabiting and destroying his system. He groaned as Ravendor kicked the affected area around his side and was forced to roll over onto his stomach, now incapable of moving and totally paralyzed. He felt a numbness within all his limbs and was lightheaded, sick and weak all over. Coughing violently, he spat out a thick fluid that smelt too much like panakeia and infinitely tiny nanomachines, revolted by a disgusting and nauseating taste in his mouth.

The winged demon knelt and took hold of Kuronegaiken's handle, awkwardly shifting the sword a little in his grip. Holding the weapon made him feel a tad uneasy, but he nevertheless raised the sword over Clive's back, calculating the best place for him to strike and pierce Clive's heart in two. The ancient sword shimmered as an inner light shined out of it's blade, rejecting Ravendor's spirit and crying out for the soul of it's original master. He had felt the tender electricity crawl up his arm and cautiously sample his aura, but then hid a small wince when the sword had discarded his value almost violently, like a critic knocking an appalling wine glass away with abhorrence.

A bright light leapt from the weapon and Ravendor was forced to avert his eyes, not falling for the same technique twice. Kuronegaiken dissolved in the great expenditure of energy, melting away like white-hot molten lava. When the light dissipated he looked back, and was sharply slapped in the face. Luceid stood over Clive's body, her crimson-red eyes furious and filled with pent-up emotion. Ravendor cursed and stepped back, holding his stinging cheek and recoiling from the extreme aura that the Guardian Lord emanated in invisible waves.

__

Luceid is the Guardian of Desire… Clive's mind murmured as the effects of his healing factor began to function as the poison was gradually cleared away, yet still he was unable to move and defend himself. One side of his mind was deliriously happy to see Luceid once more, while the other was fraught with apprehension, aware of the Guardian's special power. _Yes, the Guardian of Desire… Those who look upon her true form see the object of their unguarded desire… superimposed over Luceid's shape…Whatever their open heart wishes for… It can drive a weaker… or a damaged man insane…_

Spacing her arms out from her body, Luceid stood in a protective stance in front of Clive, buying him time so that his body could recover. She did not speak, and merely let her eyes do all the talking. They spoke a thousand words at once in their appearance, and Clive heard the sound of metal falling to the floor, a small collection of edged feather darts that Ravendor had presumably been holding escaping from the dark-haired man's hands. He stepped back, hardly helping himself from staring. For him, for Ravendor Begucci, it was not Luceid that stood over Clive's body, but Catherine, a younger, nineteen-year-old Catherine, her soft grey eyes narrowed in anger. Finally, she allowed herself to speak, mimicking Catherine's gentle and warm voice perfectly. "Ravendor… Why didn't you come back to me? You promised me that you would return! You told me that you loved me! I waited for you! Tell me why!" She asked, her powerful aura illuminating the area within the darkness.

He was silent for a very long time, debating something within his mind, arguing, or trying to accept the reality that Catherine was really there, standing right in front of him. "Catherine…" He eventually managed to whisper, tentatively stepping towards her but still keeping his distance. "This must be trickery. You are not here, you cannot be here… Not like this..." Ravendor fell to his knees, shaking his head. He looked up at her and managed an ironic smile. "You wish to know why? I wanted to come back, every day I admit that I thought about it, but I could not bring myself to action. Would you welcome back a monster? A demon? I am not good enough anymore. I never was." Gazing back towards the ground, Ravendor dug his claws into the shadows below him and laughed. "…But that does not matter, because you have Clive now, and because this is all just a cheap trick. I will not be fooled by trickery. I will not allow myself to succumb to anything. I feel nothing."

Like one sinking into quicksand willingly, Ravendor was swallowed up by the darkness again and retreated, giving Clive a little more time. Luceid turned around and shifted back into her default form, falling to her knees and rolling Clive back onto his stomach. The swordsman sat up and rubbed at the scratch on his cheek, wiping away some traces of venom, and then glared over to where Ravendor had been only a few seconds ago. "That is a lie." He said to the rippling rings of darkness, remnants of Ravendor's departure. Clive rubbed his neck and then fixed his gaze on Luceid, who smiled briefly before shifting her shape back into the sword Kuronegaiken, falling into his lap, slightly warmer from it's instant re-forging. Clive nodded at the whisper of a thought that sped through his mind and stroked the flat of the blade gently. "Thank you, Luceid. We will speak later. I promise." Smiling, he struggled to his feet, a painful twanging in his nerves reminding him of the dregs of poison still flitting throughout his system.

__

He decided not to return because he was ashamed of being a demon… Because he thought that Catherine would hate him for who he was… for **what** he was… He picked a life of loneliness and isolation so she would not have to suffer…Guardians, he **is** just like me…

Clive turned around in a full circle, scouting out the area that he was now in, still stuck there without any method of departure. His sixth sense told him that he was no longer in a simple waking world, but borderline between reality and some sort of dream. _No…_Clive bit his lip. _Not a dream, more like a memory… somebody else's memory…A dark memory…_It was nonetheless similar to his own recent miserable dreams, a lack of anything that could be definable in reality. The swordsman coughed faintly from his recent throat injury and tightened his grip on Kuronegaiken, his mind wandering back to Luceid. He had seen here again, and she had _recognized_ him. Could such a thing be possible?

Luceid's voice interrupted him, cutting through his mind like the song of a siren. Her tone was grave, however, and wary. **_No longer you walk in the waking world, once more you descend to the world of dreams, the single citadel of memory for the one who wanders there the most. I have walked into the desires and memories of the Dark Angel, and now, you must also walk too… Boomerang…_**

Three lights burned to life in the darkness, moderately spaced between each other and outlining something faintly tangible in the minimum amount of light streaming from the sources and Kuronegaiken's blade. Like they were ripped from different realities or dimensions, three different paths emerged and were overseen by the lights, standing side-by-side one another. Two were similar to stone-built corridors, one lighter than the other, occupying the left and the right space. In the center, the middle path was made of metal, a chiseled dingy bronzed alloy. It stank of something he had smelled before, in all the buildings previously used by the Council of Seven. Three different paths, which one was he meant take? He was alone in this, so why did the dimension around him show more than one path? Was he meant to choose by himself? Clive addressed the nothingness in front of him with a question, feeling a little foolish. "Where am I supposed… to go?" He asked, his voice echoing ominously.

"Wherever you go, it will not be alone." Answered a voice behind him, causing Clive to tense slightly and look behind him, raising his sword a little. Catherine walked up to him and cocked her head slightly to one side, smiling benignly. The swordsman looked down towards her hands and noticed that they were cut up and bleeding, wounds made in her frantic attempt to free their buried friends. As soon as Catherine saw that Clive had noticed, she hid her hands behind her back. She looked at him resolutely. "In this path, we must walk together. The darkness swallowed me up the same as you, and we have been thrust towards the same goal. I loved Ravendor once, and despite what he has done, I still want to see him freed from this eternal night."

When Clive opened his mouth to answer her, he was cut off by another, smaller, though familiar voice. "I'm scared of the dark," Kaitlyn admitted as she took her father's free hand, having crept up to the both of them from her own path in the darkness, "But it's okay because Uncle Ravendor lives here, so it can't be too scary. He was mean to Daddy, we gotta find him so he can apologize and then we can go home." The little girl smiled an innocent smile that was like a light in the morbid world they all had lived through in the past few days, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'm not scared, I can't be scared. I'm going to be a drifter someday and find old stuff just like this!" Reaching a hand into the small pocket of her dress, she pulled out the stone specimen of the trilobite that Ravendor had given her the day before, showing it off with pride. "Uncle Ravendor gave it to me, isn't it pretty?"

"Three paths… three walkers into the citadel of memory…" Clive said softly as he stared at the ground. "Catherine, Kaitlyn, I never wanted you to get involved. I have no choice now but to let you get involved. It seems the only option." The metal demon knelt and sheathed his sword, placing both his hands upon Kaitlyn's shoulders. Catherine knelt with him, the three forming a small circle. Clive spoke. "Listen, please. Each of us will take a different path into the darkness. I really do hate to do this to you, Catherine… Kaitlyn… but our paths will be separate. Kaitlyn, you will have to be a big girl and take the path by yourself. This world isn't real, nothing here can hurt you. You will be safe. The only one who can harm you is Ravendor himself, and I do not think-"

Still smiling, Kaitlyn nodded, interrupting her father again. "Don't worry, Daddy. I can do it. I'm not scared."

__

You may not be scared for yourself, Kaitlyn, but Guardians, I know I am…

Catherine glanced towards her husband and seemed to mentally plead with him to reconsider, but she already knew within her heart that Clive was correct. They all had a different direction that they needed to take. Standing back up, she surveyed the three paths, absentmindedly biting her lip. "Considering Ravendor's memory, I fear what lies in wait for us beyond the darkness. But, if they are only memories, then they cannot hurt us. I don't know what power brought us here, but the power of departure will most likely lie at the end of these paths. Everybody, please be careful." She closed her eyes and faced one of the outer paths, taking a step forward. She seemed reluctant to leave both Clive and Kaitlyn behind. Then, swallowing hard, she disappeared into the left-hand path, her body vanishing the moment she stepped into the illuminated area of the burning lights.

Watching her mother leave, Kaitlyn pulled her hand away from Clive's and stared at the right-hand pathway, tucking her trilobite fossil back into a pocket of her blue dress. Turning back to her father, her face grew serious for one unexpected moment. "Daddy… Uncle Ravendor reminds me of something that I don't really know. I think maybe that I met him once before. If I can find him, maybe he'll tell me where!" She went back to smiling, facing the corridor-like path and running towards it, laughing out her last words to Clive before her own disappearance. "This is my first drifter adventure without anyone helping me! Daddy, watch me fly!"

Clive was left to ponder and look upon the middle pathway, sensing the greatest amount of darkness and ill-intent radiating from there. Habitually, he adjusted his cracked glasses and then rubbed his chin. Coming to a conclusion, he shook his head sadly. "Kaitlyn, he reminds you of somebody you have never met before? Seven years, Kaitlyn's age, to be subtracted from the years since Seraph has died. Seventeen minus seven, leaving ten years, equal to the time from now to the time that Yggdrasil exploded, and Ravendor was turned into a demon. Reincarnation. Kaitlyn is Kaitlyn…" Clive looked up into an invisible sky. "For what purpose? For _who's_ purpose? What was the reason that you decided to come back as my daughter… big sister Seraph?"

He walked down the middle path, both his hands clenched into fists.

Kaitlyn's life could now only be determined by herself.


	79. The Crime Of Innocence

(A/N: Both meteor9 and Hana no Kaze deserve credit for helping me to name Lord and Lady Begucci, because I am horrible at thinking up names. Many thanks, guys!)

Kaitlyn was facing a door. She had walked through the darkness which lead to a corridor, which in turn led to a very large door, locked very securely and tightly. The girl felt a tugging feeling in her chest and a desire to open the big door as see what was behind it, certain that something _very_ special must lie upon the other side. There was a big keyhole underneath the doorknob that required a key, and though Kaitlyn had the idea of looking under the doormat for it, she found nothing but dust. No key. _This is the Gunner's Heaven…_ She told herself, _But I don't know why I know. It feels like the place itself is telling me what I need to know. Daddy says that he comes here because Uncle Jet likes 'The Game'…_

Sighing and giving up, Kaitlyn placed her hand on the door and pushed, hoping that it would be unlocked. She touched air, her hand went straight through the wooden surface of the door, like it wasn't even there. Now she could even see her hand, it was on the other side of the door. Amazed, she yanked it out again and inspected it carefully, it looked okay. Then, she tentatively touched one finger to the surface and traced little circles, making a rippling motion. This was her way in. Holding her breath like she expected to emerge in deep water, she stepped inside. A tingly feeling washed all over her body as she passed through, and it when it faded away did she dare breathe again. Her eyes squeezed shut, she opened them one by one and then gasped, astonished.

There were so many more toys than Kaitlyn ever would have dreamed of littering the floor of the room, of every available description and construction, brightly colourful and inviting. Building blocks were scattered in one area, while a rocking horse took over another, and at least three dozen different stuffed animals were thrown all over the place. A half-assembled train set was gathering a little bit of dust, and Kaitlyn's foot accidentally nudged a ball as she walked into the center of the room, turning around and around as she moved so she could take in the entirety of the scene. Her face was open with amazement, she had _never_ seen so many toys in one place at one time.

Kneeling, Kaitlyn picked up an expensive-looking teddy bear and brushed a little bit of dust off it's light brown fur, though old, it seemed to have never been used. The little girl hugged it, feeling that it's stuffing was still springy and not used to being cuddled. "Hello teddy," She said to the bear, "Do you have an owner? Do you have a name? Old Teddy must have been sitting here for ages to get all dusty. Are you lonely, Mr. Bear?" It did not answer to her queries, it's cold black beady eyes staring blankly into the front of her blue dress. However, Kaitlyn heard a noise from within the room, coming from one of the four corners, a slight shuffling sound that indicated movement. She dropped the bear and turned towards the noise, guilty of going around and touching things that certainly did not belong to her.

In a corner, away from all the other toys and the brighter colours, a small child was leaning against the wall, a boy, Kaitlyn reckoned after a glance, about half her age, around four or five years old. He was wearing a simple white shirt and dark charcoal-grey shorts, his hair just long enough to be tied back into a small little ponytail. His gaze was downward, eyes hidden by his black fringe. Totally silent, he said absolutely nothing and did not even pay any attention toward Kaitlyn who had barged into his playroom. At first, the girl wondered if he was sleeping, because of his lack of movement, but there was something about the way he was sitting that implied an alert mind. Yet, he was as motionless as the rest of the untouched toys in the room.

Kaitlyn was a little too young to be perturbed by this. "Oh, hello. I didn't see you there. My name's Kaitlyn, what's yours?" She said happily, walking over to him and leaning down to try and get a better look at his face. It was half-buried into some kind of shapeless stuffed animal, too worn and played-with to discern exactly what kind of animal it was. It seemed that this stuffed animal had received one hundred percent of the child's attention, to the total exclusion of all the other toys around them. Upon hearing Kaitlyn's words, the boy just hugged the animal tighter and did not look up, leaning more closely into the corner. Kaitlyn cocked her head to one side, confused. She got down onto her knees and touched his shoulder, surprised when the child recoiled from the touch. Stubbornly though, she ploughed on. "Can't you speak english? Are you okay? I am Kait-lyn. Un-der-stand?" She simplified her words and spoke more slowly, trying to get a response. The boy looked up at her, his eyes were withdrawn and downcast.

"…'M name's Ravvy." He said in a soft sad voice, slightly muffled as he pressed his face back into the soft surface of his stuffed animal. Having made some progress, Kaitlyn sat down and smiled, absently picking up what she believed to be called a slinky and playing with it in her hands. It made a delightfully interesting noise as its many coils slid against each other to make motion. The girl listened to this for a short while, then grew bored and dropped the toy, the slinky rolling away and then bumping up against a simple-looking picture book. "…And I understand you." The boy added after a minute, making no increase or decrease in the tone of his voice. It was flat and dull, so unlike a child.

"Hello Ravvy!" Kaitlyn replied brightly and smiling, "These are all your toys? Gosh, you're lucky! I have a few, but not as many as this! How come you don't play with them? Don't you like them? I know! Let's finish that train set over there!" She gestured to the half-completed train set, but the boy made no motion to get up, although he did look up at her again, and did not avert his eyes. Ravvy loosened his hold on his stuffed animal and held it up to Kaitlyn under the arms, the toy hanging limply and seeming to have seen much better days. It was patched out of green and white material and was hand-made, something of a cross between a teddy bear and a cat toy, while stuffing poked out of a hole ripped in it's left leg. It bore an expression of perpetual happiness, stitched onto it's cloth face.

It dangled like an old rag as Ravvy introduced it to Kaitlyn. "This is Chappy," He said carefully, like one unsure of his speech and trying his best to sound legible, "He is my friend. He doesn't say 'No' when I ask for a hug, he lets me sleep with him, and shadows aren't so scary when he's around. Aunt Schwodinger says that Chappy makes monsters go away, that's why she sewed him for me. The other toys," He glanced uncertainly at them, "Are cold. Cold as coldness. Cold as frosty, frosty winter without a jacket. They don't do anything. They lie there and stare at me, so I lie here and stare at them. I don't like the cold toys, because they don't keep the shadow monsters away." Ravvy paused for a long time, in thought, then added a fragment of a disassociated topic; "The door is locked." He said.

Kaitlyn had not noticed this, because her method of entry had been unorthodox at the most. She looked up at the big door, with a large lock under the doorknob, too high up for small children to touch and try to pry loose. The door itself was wide and thick, made of sturdy wood, more like the door to a prison cell that an entrance to a playroom. Ravvy sighed and hugged Chappy again. "I don't like big doors with big locks, they stand there no matter how much you kick and punch them. I don't like walls, one, two, three, and four. I don't like ceilings. Ceilings are like a house's hat. I want to go outdoors. I want to see the sky."

There was a small window built into one of the walls, from there, Kaitlyn could see some white fluffy clouds and blue sky. It must have been daytime, around midday. Ravvy smiled at the sky. "It is blue sometimes, but when I'm tired, the sky turns black. I wonder if the sky knows when I'm tired and turns black because of it, or if I make the sky black by being tired? Does the sky like being black? I know I don't like being tired, but when the sky is black, the stars are shining. They must shine because I am tired, to make me not tired, I think." Although he made no move to get up, he looked steadily at Kaitlyn, who was staring at the small rectangular window. There was a little ledge outside the window, and a plate had been set there with some breadcrumbs, probably an offering to any birds that would pass by the building. In fact, a small sparrow was sitting in the plate right now, nibbling at a chunk of bread and making little satisfied chirping noises.

The girl quietly crept to the window, so as not to scare the small bird, and looked up at the bird, transfixed as she never had been before. The window was too high for her to look out of properly, so she moved over to some rather large building blocks and carefully carried them towards the window, setting it down underneath it, making her a step tall enough to reach the windowsill without having to stretch her arms. The sparrow was still there, tearing away at it's little lump of bread. Kaitlyn looked back towards Ravvy, he had buried his face in his stuffed toy again, withdrawing himself back into his quiet inner world now that Kaitlyn was a considerable distance away. "Did you put food here so the birds would stay for lunch? That's a great idea! I need to try that once I get home. I'm on a journey right now, you see."

Ravvy said something softly, but it was muffled by Chappy's patchwork fabric. By listening carefully, Kaitlyn could just make out the words. "I went on a journey once, when there was no big round face in the sky, and when father made me come back, there was the big round face in the sky, like a sun that doesn't hurt your eyes. When I came back, father locked me in here, because he said that mother was sick." He gazed at the huge, thick, locked door. "Mother is still sick, and it's all my fault. Father says that it is all my fault, and if she goes away, it's because of me." Ravvy sniffed, but was incredibly motionless. "Father says that I didn't deserve to be born, the only people who are happy and like to see me are the birds and the sky, and you, Kaitwyn."

Kaitlyn held out her finger, and the bird, surprisingly tamed, hopped onto it and chirped out a pretty little song, bobbing it's head in time with it's own music. The girl turned around and sat down on the box, the sparrow still on her finger. "Is that why you leave out food for the birds? I think the birds must like you if they come here and sing for you." She smiled, "I like you too." Reaching her hand up, she flicked her finger deftly and the sparrow flew off back into the blue sky, where puffy white clouds were floating by like cotton wool.

The boy looked downcast, ignoring Kaitlyn's statement. "I want to be a bird," He said sadly, "So I can fly through the window and leave the walls and ceilings and locks and doors and fathers who hate you and mothers who won't touch you and cold toys who don't do anything but stare. I'll take Chappy with me to keep the darkness away, and then nothing will ever hurt me again." He rocked backwards and forwards a bit, sniffling and seeming to recite words that had been spoken strictly to him. "I have to be a good boy and not complain, because Mama is dying and Father is angry and nobody else will look at me. It's all my fault, it's all my fault…"

Feeling confused in her heart, Kaitlyn didn't say anything. How could any of that be the fault of a four year old boy? Footsteps began to echo from the corridor that attached to the room both Kaitlyn and Ravvy resided in, suggesting the approach of other people. The boy visibly flinched each time the sound of a footstep reached his ears, trembling a little. Kaitlyn was reminded of a scared little mouse in the boy's reaction, and felt her heart tighten in sympathy for him. She stood up to say something but was interrupted by the lock in the door springing open, the great wooden door scraping the floor as it was pushed open. Ravvy tensed and let out a little whimper of dismay, pushing himself as far as he could into the corner of the room.

A faceless servant, most likely a butler, stepped into the room. He completely ignored Kaitlyn, it was as if she wasn't even there, and bowed slightly towards Ravvy like he was begrudgingly admitting his servitude. "Young Master," He droned flatly in a stereotypical butler-like tone, "Lord Begucci requests your attendance outside the anteroom of Lady Begucci's chamber as promptly as possible. I advise that you attend." Ravvy gave the butler a blank stare of incomprehension to the servant's words, there was only so much english that one could know at such an early age.

They both paused for a second, and then the butler strode up and roughly grabbed onto the child's arm and dragged him to his feet, the boy kicking and trying to struggle out of the man's stronger grip. He let out a little cry and tried to wrench his arm away unsuccessfully, attempting to pull himself as far away as possible from the butler's touch. "Stupid oaf of a boy," The butler hissed as Ravvy squirmed, "Cannot even understand proper english. The Master should have murdered you when he had the chance and then be done with it." The servant glowered at the boy's pitiful response and clenched his fist tightly around the boy's wrist, dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground and sneering.

"Stop it!" Kaitlyn cried, running over to the servant and trying to hit him in the side with a small curled fist. Her hand passed straight through the butler's body like it was nothing more than air she lost her balance and fell through him, landing on the floor. Nobody noticed this, for Kaitlyn's presence there was only as an invisible specter that only the child named Ravvy could see. The boy was in a little heap on the ground and was holding onto his stuffed animal like a lifeline, he had gone completely limp, defeated. He didn't try to fight back when the butler dragged him to his feet and led him out of the playroom, and Kaitlyn, though tempted to stay behind and play with all the amazing toys, decided to follow them. There was a reason that she was here, she knew, so she may as well, try and find out what that was. Besides, she was concerned for the small child that didn't seem to have a single friend in the world.

Kaitlyn had a little bit of trouble keeping pace with them at first, walking with Ravvy and still being unnoticed by the old sour servant. The boy didn't look like he was keeping track of where he was going or navigated his way at all, content to let the butler lead him to wherever he was going. The look in his eyes was one that didn't seem to care anymore, no matter where he'd end up, nothing would ever change. Dull and lifeless. It was heart-shatteringly saddening. They turned several corridors and went even deeper into the back area of Gunner's Heaven, going up a flight of stairs that was very difficult for Kaitlyn and Ravvy to scale, and then past many, many closed doors, all locked up tight. Lit torches burned on their hooks on the walls above every door, and the patterns of shadows that they cast was more than enough to frighten somebody who feared the dark. Ravvy whimpered weakly as he looked at them, and then averted his eyes.

The butler bowed and then left them outside one of the doors at the very end of the corridor, coming up as a small cul-de-sac that was more richly decorated than any of the other areas that Kaitlyn had seen in the building. One person was waiting outside and leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Kaitlyn had seen the Duke Begucci before in a newspaper that her father had pointed out for her, but he had been older and greyer, thinner and much weaker. This duke that was before them looked to be only in his late thirties and had mousy brown hair that was kept in a long ponytail, with dark brown eyes that held their own kind of contempt. He looked far stronger than when he was older, and kept himself in an air in intense strictness.

Ravvy slowly walked up to the duke and hugged Chappy even tighter, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. Pausing, he walked a little bit away and then sat down in the corner of the cul-de-sac again, taking up residence and trying to hide himself yet again. Kaitlyn followed and sat down next to him, receiving no protest from the motion. The duke frigidly ignored his son, smoking his cigarette while keeping his eyes closed. The door opened, and a professional-looking doctor stepped out, pouring over a clipboard bearing a great many sheets with scribbled-on paper. The doctor was thin and gaunt, sallow-cheeked and smelt strongly of anesthetic. There were great dark rings around his eyes. The duke spoke in a sort of growl, rough, though filled with an articulated vocabulary. "Well, how is she?" He asked. Ravvy flinched when he heard the duke's voice.

"Lady Victoria has developed an advanced case of acute lymphatic pneumonia. It had weakened her body greatly and I do not think that she will survive for much longer. Perhaps you should allow the Young Master to say his goodbyes before the inevitable occurs. Lord Cain, there is no more that can be done for her now. All we must do is wait, and perhaps, pray for a miracle." The doctor flicked through his reports and then sighed tiredly. The duke snorted and then inhaled more of his cigarette. Kaitlyn looked between them, there was a tension going on that appeared to be draining the life out of everybody around them. "Lady Schroedinger is awake enough to receive an audience, I believe." The doctor added. "Though she may be under the effects of delirium."

"Victoria is a Begucci now," The duke said darkly to the doctor who stepped back meekly, "She is a Schroedinger no longer. Send the boy in if that is what you prefer, I care not." He took a deep drag of his cigarette and Kaitlyn couldn't help but cough quietly, though she was continually ignored. The duke glared at Ravvy, huddled up, trying to be as small as possible and made a disgusted face. "However," He continued, "Should the boy do anything discourteous or unseemly, I shall punish him myself in the old fashion, with the cane and the whip. Understand, boy?"

Ravvy stood up. "Yes sir." He said, walking towards the closed door. Kaitlyn followed, and Ravvy pressed his stuffed toy Chappy into her arms. Under his breath, he murmured; "Kaitwyn, can you please hold onto Chappy while I go and see Mama?" The little girl nodded and Ravvy pushed the heavy door in with a little difficulty, receiving no help whatsoever from the other two adults nearby. Kaitlyn felt that the front of Chappy's body was damp from absorbing tears, Ravvy had been crying silently the entire time. He had not made a sound, and was really good at hiding it on his face. Kaitlyn bit her lip and walked in with him, not having to walk through the door like a ghost this time.

The boy pushed the door closed afterwards, leaning against it for a sec so he could catch his breath. Kaitlyn looked around. The room was mostly decorated in colours or deep royal red, blood red, and laced in gold. Beautiful paintings and tapestries hung on the walls and a fireplace burned warmly nearby, and incredibly aged and expensive-looking furniture was strategically placed around the room. They didn't look to be touched very often. In a way, this place was a lot like Ravvy's playroom, everything was there, but nothing was seemed to be used. Near the far end of the chamber medicines had been placed on a bedside table, with a pitcher of water and a half-filled glass, and somebody silently lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Kaitlyn trailed behind Ravvy as they both approached the bed, and she decided to stay a few paces behind, because this matter didn't really concern her. Something on the inside told her that she was only meant to watch.

A woman lay in bed, her eyes horribly glassy and very distant. Her face was flushed, and she only seemed to be half awake, or only half conscious of her surroundings. Kaitlyn looked up and saw a very large portrait of her on the wall, sitting on a chair with her hands folded demurely in her lap. She had been wearing far too much make-up than was appropriate, and her overly-extravagant dress and hairstyle only seemed to cloud up her beauty rather than augment it. Here and now, her hair was loose and she wore no more than a simple nightgown, with no make-up whatsoever. She looked far more beautiful this way, for Lady Victoria Begucci was a very beautiful person naturally, without addition. Her hair was raven black while her eyes were an emerald green, her complexion pale and spotless. Ravvy folded his arms on the bed and looked at her, it was obvious that he had inherited most of her physical traits. "Mama?" He asked meekly.

On command, her eyes refocused and she sat up with a little wheeze, her breath slightly labored. Dark hair obscured her face so she brushed it away, looking down upon her son. "Little one," She said quietly with a strange smile, "Did you wander into my room by mistake? Your chamber is not on this level, only Cain's and mine." She laughed a little mindlessly, taking a great interest in a crease upon her bed sheets. "Cain, Cain, darling Cain. My Lord Begucci… I wonder where your brother Abel went?" Laughing again, she shook her head. "Into the mountains without an ARM, guided by my darling Cain, to disappear, and leave your little brother as heir. My dear husband, returning with a bloody handprint on his cheek, to be the Immoral Duke…"

"No, Mama." Ravvy corrected, "I came in here to see you because Father and the doctor said I could. I want to make sure you get better. Please get better, I'm sorry that I ran away…" He bowed his head unhappily and sniffed, holding back more silent tears. Victoria unexpectedly leaned forward and touched him on the shoulder, a motion so unfamiliar to him that he first reaction was the pull away before he realised that contact from her was a _good_ thing and something that he had been searching for all his life.

"Come and sit up here with Mother," She said hazily, a small and unusual smile on her face, "Come and sit with me, little one." Almost warily and not sure why he was so, Ravvy climbed up onto the bed, cautious of this unusual request. Victoria hugged him and Ravvy became a little frightened. This had never happened before. "I know now," She whispered, "I know. Father hates his son. Mother hates her son. The son runs away, and the mother dies in punishment. But the mother hates the father, and regrets everything she has ever done for him, _with_ him. Because if so, then the son would have never been born. Then the world would have been a better place for both the father _and_ the mother. But mother will die, and it is _all_ the son's fault. Tell me, little one. Does the mother _truly_ hate the son, or does the son _truly_ hate the mother?"

"I don't know." Ravvy said in a tiny voice. "I don't know…"

"Mother is going to die soon…" Victoria continued with an unhinged tinkling laugh, "But father both hates mother _and_ son, wishing us death. He does not need me anymore, and he does not need you either. He desires to be the Immoral Duke forever, and never pass on that name. He wishes to take it to his grave. Father blames mother for bringing you into the world and threatening that title." She sighed deeply, wilting even more. She was pale enough to be seen dying even as she spoke. Slowly, she stuck her hand underneath the pillow where she had been resting her head, drawing attention to her other hand by stroking Ravvy's dark hair. "Because I am going to die, and because he wishes you to die, why not silence this unspoken wish for death and end it ourselves… together?"

From out of the pillow, Victoria drew a knife. It was very sharp and probably taken from the Gunner's Heaven's kitchens, though it was common knowledge that nearly all noblemen and woman slept with a knife nearby, in case of assassination. It was a fact of their lives. Victoria looked at the edge and smiled. Kaitlyn stiffened from fear. "Yes…" The noblewoman said sweetly, "Let us die together… There is nothing else… Nothing else…" Carefully, she positioned the tip of the deadly blade at the center of Ravvy's back, smiling lopsidedly. The knowledge of certain death and the delirium of her sickness had made her lose her mind.

"No!" At the last moment, Ravvy panicked and squirmed out of her arms, throwing himself onto the end of the bed. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and he was shuddering from lack of breath due to his sadness. He rolled onto his back and sat, wiping his eyes using the back of his wrist. Victoria was laughing insanely but not loudly, steadily, melodiously. The knife was in her hand, trembling as she laughed. Ravvy sobbed out the rest of his words, barely understandable. "Mama! Please don't kill me! I don't want to die, I don't! Don't die! Please, don't die! Don't leave me here alone! _Don't leave me alone!_"

Victoria glanced at the knife. She was crying also, but smiling madly. "I hate you, Ravendor. I have always hated you, and I will _always_ hate you." The noblewoman wiped her face, her green eyes glittering through her tears. "Oh Guardians… I am such a fool…"

She stabbed herself, right in front of her son.

For Kaitlyn, the entire scene in front of her seemed to slow down, the volume decreasing, her vision going hazy. She dropped Chappy in the growing pool of red blood that was spilling down the sheets of the bed, her arms going numb and limp, her grey eyes wide. She could hear Ravvy screaming, the door behind her opening as Duke Begucci and the doctor barged in, seeing the bloodshed, and the hysterical boy lost in the center of it all. Chappy soaked in the blood, still bearing it's mocking, happy face. How many tears had Chappy seen? How many drops of blood had Chappy counted?

Like a film coming to a close, the scenario ended and the little girl was engulfed in darkness, something that she didn't notice, for the image of the crying boy had been imprinted, burnt into her mind. A tear rolled down her cheek, she looked down, and then there was nothing.


	80. Soaked Through With Fear

The nothingness gained form all around her, shifting like a light dimming and then relighting to illuminate something else. Catherine was now indoors, the air around her conveying a heaviness that was synonymous with deep night. She had left Clive behind her to follow his own path, while the one she now walked belonged only to her. This path seemed to call out to her, and curiosity compelled her to investigate. Catherine did not deny the fact that she feared what existed in the memory of the dark-haired demon, because she knew that both Clive and Ravendor had not experienced an easy life. All Catherine could hope for was that Kaitlyn and Clive had been given easier paths than herself.

Her back was up against a cold and dirty wall, the palms of her hands pressed against it's stony surface. The way that the area was built suggested that she was somewhere underground, most likely the sub-levels of some dark, dreary place. It was like a dungeon, and in some damp places moss grew in little nooks and crannies, the only plant life she could see. She was in a long hallway, with no idea on whether she should go left or right. Walking into the center of the hallway, she looked down both ways but only saw darkness, the only light existing coming from a torch hanging on the wall. Then, she heard something that sent a shiver up her spine, unsure if it was a good or a bad thing. Footsteps.

"Who on Filgaia could that be?" Catherine asked herself in a hushed tone, taking a step back. Deciding to wait and see, she remained where she stood. A man appeared from the corridor to her right, quite young, very young, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen. He had short light brown hair, a warm smile and an accomplished gait, like a friendly neighbor that one would expect to be living next door. With him, he was leading a boy, around seven or eight years old, about Kaitlyn's age, and talking to him as he moved. The child only seemed to be half involved in the young man's words, and Catherine noticed that though the man seemed to be looking straight at her, he could not see her.

"Don't feel too bad about it, Young Master. I had to do the same thing too, when I was… Oh, a little older than you are now. I admit that I had it much easier back then, but hey, things like this builds character. I bet with a little practice and elbow grease, you'll do just fine." He laughed forcedly, putting on a fake smile. It almost seemed to hurt him as he did it. "Who knows? Someday you might even be able to beat me! It's possible, you know, you're not that bad at all."

"Mister Ortega, you need not lie to me because my class outranks your own, I am aware of how inutile my skills are." Said the boy, looking blankly ahead. Without a twitch, they passed through Catherine's body as they continued down the hallway, a strange cold prickly feeling washing over the ex-drifter when she realised that she was no more or no less than a ghost. The boy stared at the ground and it's dirty and grungy surface. "I don't want to do this. Not right now. Not until I'm feeling a little better." His arm was already bound in a sling, seeming to have only been broken a little while ago and just beginning the healing process. It had been tended well, though the shape of the wooden splint setting the injury suggested that his bone had been cleanly snapped in half.

"I know." Ortega sighed, but then put his false smile back on again. "At least you can look forward to it ending, eh? Besides, I know you'll do just fine. Don't give up, and make sure you listen to what the Master says." Catherine kept pace with them and the darkness unfolding in front of them was dispelled by the torch Ortega was carrying with him in his free hand, casting moving shadows across the stone walls. They stopped outside a large metal door, double-gated and looking like the entranceway to a dungeon. A small window with no glass was cut into the thick alloy, and it was barred with thick rods of steel. It seemed to be the doorway to a giant prison.

"'Listen to what the Master says?'" The boy echoed defeatedly. "Of course. It is all I can do to make up for Mother's death. Open the door, Mister Ortega and leave me be. I am sure that Father will summon you when the time comes to pick me up again." He paused, and then added some more instructions. "You might have to bring a stretcher and some helpers, like last time. Can you get one ready just in case, please?" Ortega nodded grimly and unlocked the huge door with a large iron key, fitting it into the keyhole with a metallic clink. He turned the key and pushed the door open slightly with some difficulty, then he bowed before turning away, walking back the way he had come, leaving the boy there all alone.

He watched the servant leave, sighed softly and adjusting the knot pressing into his shoulder where his sling had been tied, trying to make it a little more comfortable. Accomplishing this, he pushed the door open the rest of the way, crept in, and then pushed the door closed behind him. The sound of the lock reactivating told Catherine that he had locked himself inside. The ex-drifter bit her lip and followed the path that Ortega had taken away from the locked door and the boy, finding him a little ways off and leaning against the wall, smoking a small and crumpled cigarette.

"Dammit." Ortega said to himself. "I didn't become the Master's retainer to watch him slowly kill children. It makes me wonder why I wanted to become a gladiator in the first place." He stood there for a few minutes, letting his cigarette burn without inhaling any of the smoke, so that a long bit of ash clung stubbornly to the tobacco-filled tube, the embers burning sullenly. "Things have gone downhill since Lady Victoria passed away. At least the Master was somewhat sane back then. Though… It's hard to believe that that little kid killed his mother in cold blood, he doesn't look like the heartless murdering type. It's a little too hard to accept. Ah well. I had better go and get that stretcher ready now. I bet the he'll probably need it."

Catherine watched Ortega leave, the small cloud of smoke lingering in the air even as he left. "He killed his mother? I thought she perished because of pneumonia. That is what I heard, or what I was always told to believe. I suppose… a child can still commit a heinous sin… but still…" The woman ran back to the thick metal door, placing both her hands on it in order to push it open, forgetting that the door was already locked. But, with a weird tingle, Catherine put her weight into her arms and stumbled _through_ the door, just barely keeping her balance as she emerged on the other side and came to a stop. She had held her breath during this, and let it out suddenly, seeing what lay beyond the closed steel door.

Large containers stuffed with tinder had been set alight and burnt brightly near the cold stone walls, in all the corners of the very large arena that she now stood in. It smelt strongly of dried blood and rotting decay. Catherine instinctively moved to hold her nose and block out the smell, recoiling a little. Backing away and into a corner, next to the warmth of one of the contained bonfires, she looked around the arena of this new unpleasant memory. The Duke Begucci was there, still young, proud and ruthless. Instead of being dressed in rich finery, he was wearing a pitch black coat and more durable clothing, a long and cruel-looking whip in one hand and a small and elegant pistol in the other. He was smiling nastily, and thew the pistol on the floor, the sound of it's impact grating all over the room. "Get up, boy." He said. There had been a battle, but it seemed that Catherine had missed it.

A two-headed dragon lay slumped in a huge heap behind the duke, still alive, but immobilized. A long and thick chain was bound around it's two heads and acted like a leash, the duke stooping and picking up the end of the chain with his now free hand. The dragon whined, one head breathing out smoke while the other exhaled frosty water vapour. The boy Catherine had seen from before was lying on his side and breathing hard, a little scratched up. He had a spilt lip, and bruises along some of the exposed parts of his body. Pushing himself up on his uninjured arm, he shakily got to his feet. Limping, he staggered over to his father and cringed, as if he was awaiting punishment. The duke sadistically pulled hard on the chains of the beast, making the monster groan in pain and shiver.

Yes, I remember Ravendor mentioning it to me once, that before the duke lost his strength and became an old and weak man, he trained each of the gladiator monsters himself without aid. Also, I hear he treated his son with the exact same kind of cruelty. How… terrible…

"Tell me," The duke growled, "What precisely did you do incorrectly this time? Calculate your punishment for me and prove that you are not mentally deprived as well. Pick up your weapon." The boy looked down at the pistol ARM lying on the floor, then back up at his father. Untrusting because the gun was so close to the duke, he did not move. Instead, he closed his eyes and recited dully what his father expected to hear, the fingers on his broken limb curling slightly.

"I got scared and did not move, two lashes. I allowed the monster to hit me, three lashes. I…" His voice conveyed a tiny hint of fear now and it cracked, "I dropped the weapon… fifteen lashes. Then, I… I ran away, t-twenty lashes. Forty lashes… I deserve forty lashes, sir." Deciding to take a chance, the boy fell to his knees and snatched up the ARM swiftly, like he was afraid that his hand might get stepped on. Looking at the clean immaculate metal, he got back up and stepped away from his father, whimpering. He knew what would inevitably happen, he hated what would happen…

"Untie your sling but leave the bandage on." The duke ordered, rapping his fingers on the handle of the whip, made of yew wood and wrapped in leather. "Then, remove your shirt. Do it, boy." He continued with a twisted smile. The child tugged feebly at the thin white fabric that made up his sling, but did not obey the duke's wishes any further. He appeared to be almost petrified with fear. Snorting, the duke thundered over to the boy and grabbed him by the shirt collar, forcing the boy's gaze to look up at him. The child shrunk away from the older man's breath that washed across his face, stinking of very strong whiskey. He hated that smell so much, it nauseated him. "Do it, or your punishment shall be doubled, understand?" He mouthed with utmost contempt.

Carefully and slowly, so as to suggest non-threatening movement, the boy nodded. When the duke let go, the boy sighed dejectedly and undid his sling, trying his best not to jar the broken bone. Then, he pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it on the ground. During this, he tried to make as little eye contact as he possibly could with his father. Staring at the spot of ground between his two feet, he rubbed at one of the scratches on his face and felt a sharp little sting of pain, to exist with the long dull ache of his arm being moved when it should have been kept in it's previous position. "Good lad," The duke said venomously, "Now, up against the wall. Accept the consequence of your cowardice."

"…Yes sir…" In a heart-shatteringly sad way, the boy limped over to the wall and leant against it, wiping the tears and blood off his face with the cloth bandages wrapped around his arm. The splint had become crooked in the fight, the broken bone now set into a more painful position than before. The child crossed both arms across his face and leant forward, resting his cheek against the bandage with his back towards the duke. Catherine could see faded and healed whip lashes across his back, like he had been wounded and then allowed to heal, before the process had been repeated again. She had seen those scars before many times, but it was only then that she finally understood their painful origin. The duke truly was an insane man. The boy sniffled a little, and shook his head feebly. "I'm sorry, sir." He said.

Cain Begucci struck. "ONE!" He cried out in a loud roar. The whip cut a deep red mark over the boy's flesh and he bit his lip so hard that blood began to flow, though he refused to let himself scream from the punishment. The duke growled, then shouted. "So, you say you are sorry?! You are sorry that you took a knife and tore asunder your own mother in cold blood?! You believe that words will erase the sin you have committed?! You!" He attacked with the whip again. "Disgusting!" Again. "Little!" Again. "Brat!" And again.

"I'm sorry, Father! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I don't remember! Please, Father, I'm sorry!" He sobbed while he bit down on his split lip, forcing himself to bleed even more. The duke gave him a long enough pause for the boy to experience fully the entire extent of his inflicted injuries, and then brought the whip back up again for more punishment. After all, he had only distributed five out of the forty lashes that the child had forced upon himself for his pitiful weakness. There was still so much more pain to be experienced, so much more hurt that the filthy brat deserved…

"SIX!" The movement of the whip tearing at the air caused the flaming bonfires to flicker for a bit, making the shadows dance on the walls like the members of a black Sabbath made in the deepest night. The boy kept himself silent by biting down onto his bandages, muffling his hidden cries. The duke glowered and then laughed crazily. "Blood of my blood! Poisoned blood! WORTHLESS BLOOD! I have sired no less than a profane mother-killing demon! Death is too good for you! Hell is too good for you! CALL ME 'SIR' OR NOTHING AT ALL!"

Catherine was watching in a stunned, quiet and transfixed silence. "He is mad…" She said breathlessly.

"Quite an understatement, in my own personal opinion…" Whispered somebody in her ear, standing right behind her.

The ex-drifter jumped a little and tried to turn around, but a pair of armor-plated claws clamped down onto both of her wrists and she couldn't move. Ravendor was standing behind her, forcing her to watch this gruesome scene. He did not seem to be affected by the incredible sadistic satisfaction that the duke was receiving in the torture of his younger self, for him, this was no more than a distant childhood memory. Catherine was certainly affected though, watching and not being able to do anything about it was almost as painful as the torture itself. "A few years ago, I considered going back." Ravendor said, laughing softly at something that only he found funny. "I cannot be condemned any further to Hell than I already am. I have killed hundreds of people in my lifetime while under the control of the Prophets, a sin is a sin, what would one more sin be if I could just take me revenge on the duke, once and for all?"

"But you didn't…" Catherine replied, going still and refusing to struggle against the demon. "Duke Cain Begucci still lives, even to this day. He is still in rather good health, I have heard. Why? Why did you not kill him?" She asked, dreading the answer.

"…I do not know." Ravendor said carefully, thoughtfully. "And, I expect, I shall never know. Let him be the king of his own bloodstained empire, built on screams and death. Let him rule whatever he wishes to rule, I do not care anymore. He can be the Immoral Duke forever if he wants, God knows that I never desired that title for myself. Catherine, you know that I have only ever desired one thing in my life, and Clive took that thing away from me. This is why I wish to kill Clive as payment for what he has taken away, and leave the duke alive to his own devices, do you understand?"

"Ravendor… for a madman, you are surprisingly sane." Catherine said. The demon laughed somehow sensibly, a hideous contrast to the duke's frenzied maddened laughter. However, Catherine and Ravendor appeared to have been pushed out of the immediate fabric of the scene, though they were still there as witnesses, they were now separate from what was happening in front of them. Reaching up, Ravendor brushed some of Catherine's chestnut hair away from her neck, the demon was much taller than her, and he moved down to press his cheek against her soft delicate skin. Catherine stiffened, her blood running as cold as a glacier. She didn't like where this contact seemed to be leading her, not at all.

"I had forgotten just how beautiful you really are…" He said to her while in the background the duke cried out the number fifteen in a high crazy voice. Catherine opened her mouth to say something, but found that she could say nothing at all. This frightened her, badly. "You are even more lovely then back when we were foolish stupid teenagers. Back when we were together. So very lovely… So very beautiful… Ravishing, even…" The ex-drifter closed her eyes tightly and wished fervently for her husband like she never had before, trying to will him to come and save her. She felt part of his tail touch the side of her leg and then slowly slide upwards, whereupon she let out a tiny whimper of fear. He kissed her neck, Catherine experiencing the sensation of one of his fangs scraping against her skin, and then, gently, carefully, he bit her.

It hurt at first, like a pair of injections that pierced the thin skin of her neck and her jugular vein, an incision that spurted forth a rich stream of red human blood. Catherine's hands clenched immediately, one into a fist, while the other tightly gripped a small fold of the front of her dress. Ravendor held onto both her wrists so that she could not move away, holding her immobile. The small wound went numb as the nerves became temporarily paralyzed, so Catherine could feel no more pain. Her grey eyes glazed over, and then she felt a slight dizziness that was her own blood being drained away. Ravendor's wings spread over her to hold her closer, and gritting her teeth, she tried to squirm away. "Ugh… Wh-what are you doing…?" She whispered faintly, weakly, while overhead, the consistent and sadistic sound of a whip cracking and number twenty five being called out was heard.

"Taking your blood for myself." Ravendor explained telepathically, his voice in her mind, because he could not speak in the position he was in. _"This is the way that most demons feed, at least, the more nocturnal ones. However, do not mistake me for a mere vampire, Catherine, for I do not spread such a tainted curse of yore into the bodies of others. You are safe. You are far too beautiful to be wasted, or to be hurt." _Pulling back a little, he withdrew from her neck and released one of her hands so that he could wipe his mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve, smiling in his own quietly disturbing manner. His contact with her flesh caused a tiny, almost untraceable bit of his demonic healing factor to flow into Catherine's body, a temporary effect that allowed the small wound to knit itself back together and heal within a matter of short moments. Then, the power withered and died.

Catherine felt awfully weak and shaky, her limbs feeling heavy from the lack of blood. Vaguely, she absent-minded wondered if this was what anemic people felt like when their blood content was low. It certainly felt terrible. So, she didn't resist when Ravendor gripped both her shoulders and turned her around to face him, kissing her again, deeply, passionately. She could taste her own blood on his tongue, and it filled her with revulsion. A small stream of crystal tears fell down one of her cheeks, of frustration, of a desire to escape. She had to escape. She loved Clive, not Ravendor anymore.

One of his wings accidentally brushed the side of her face, it felt soft, but one of the feathers was still slightly edged with metal and gave her a small scratch. It stung, but she tolerated it, because it had given her a marvelous idea. Instead of trying to resist Ravendor, she suddenly gave in and put her arms around him, putting in faith and trusting that her plan would work. Cautiously and delicately, so that he would barely feel it, she touched each of the longer pinions, the flight feathers, attached to his wings, hoping badly that she could find at least one that still bore a nice, sharp edge. At last, she did, cutting her finger a little on it by mistake. Praying that Ravendor would not notice or feel anything, she pulled it out. The dark-haired demon flinched as a reaction, but did not do anything more. Catherine felt a flare of hope rise in her chest, this feather was just sharp enough, and hard enough to be used like a knife blade, at least, in her theory…

It passed the practical test only moments later. Catherine had taken advantage of where her arms had been and managed to stab Ravendor cleanly in the back, burying the dark metal pinion deeply into his flesh. His influence was broken, Catherine pulled away, pulled back her fist and decked him in the face, not a slap, but a strong punch that would have made Clive incredibly proud. She wiped her mouth and looked at him sympathetically, smiling a smile that was almost Maya-like.

"Never underestimate the Aegis." She said.


	81. Separation, Darkness Of A Heart, Preciou...

Clive felt that Kuronegaiken held more mystery than he had originally anticipated inside of it's iced and enchanted blade. He walked down his path while not really paying much attention to his surroundings, staring into the amazingly beautiful metallic alloy of his blade. Clive inattentively wondered if he stared at it too much, and if he was beginning to obsess over it. But, his mind kept going over this fact again and again; did he _really_ see Luceid herself emerge from the shape of Kuronegaiken, to appear in a physical form? The thought always seemed to make his heart skip a beat, a strange fluttery sensation that he hadn't felt so strongly for years, reminiscent of his youth.

"It _was_ her, I am sure of it. I shall never forget her face again. I suppose it makes sense, Kuronegaiken _is_ made from the Lust Jaw, the original Dark Desire Blade, and fragments of the original Clive Winslett's soul. Nevertheless, it is still a medium for Luceid herself. Luceid… I wonder if you can hear me even as I talk now?" He realised that this was a stupid question, because Guardian Lords bore an unlimited range of perspective. She most probably _could_ hear him, and read the thoughts within his mind, too. Assuring himself of this, he began to worry over Kaitlyn and Catherine's whereabouts, and whether they were both safe or not. He knew that a person's memory could never harm anybody except for that person themselves, but a part of him that had been augmented by the recent lycanthrope curse, his parental instincts and the love for his mate, caused him to worry like crazy.

Pondering over Catherine caused a disturbing thought to strike his mind. _I love Catherine, but I love Luceid as well. When this is all over, what then will happen? If Luceid shows herself to me again, if I finally find her, will I be forced to choose one over the other? No. Both Catherine and Luceid are too dear to me, how can I hope to choose between them? But I… Gods… I want to see Luceid again **so** much…_

He had been walking as he thought, the sword in his hand glowing warmly and pleasantly every time his thoughts strayed back to the desire Guardian. So far, he had not reached the metallic corridor that he had seen from within the beginning of his path, he was still walking in the dark. However, Clive didn't mind this, it gave him a chance to think things through in his mind. It seemed that the two parts of him that had combined to make a whole both sought out their separate loves, yet no part of either Clive or Boomerang dominated the other, they were both balanced, of equal proportion. This conflicted Clive greatly, because now he loved to different people in two different ways, and if he loved one, he would have no choice but to abandon the other. Clive felt like his heart was gradually being ripped in two.

__

Catherine needs me now. I cannot give her up after I have fought so hard to stay with her, and she accepted me, she accepted me for **who** I was, not for **what** I was. She doesn't care if I am a monster or not, she loves me unconditionally, and we have Kaitlyn too, our daughter. But on the other hand, Luceid has waited for me to return for over two thousand years, she gave her essence to me for the soul of this sword, she even followed me to the pits of innermost Hell. She was willing to endure Hell for my sake, and I **promised **her that I would return…

If Gallows were here, he would tell me to flip a coin…

Clive chuckled, albeit a little nervously. It really wasn't a very appropriate thing to do, but Clive knew that he needed a laugh or he just might snap. The laugh was curt, it ended quickly. The swordsman was beginning to hate the inescapable darkness, the unending reality that wouldn't release him from it's clutches. Where was he going, what was he going to do? The emergence of Luceid from his sword seemed to have changed everything now, and not even Ravendor seemed that important anymore. The scary thing was, after the end of his mission to rescue Kaitlyn and stop the Dark Angel from destroying mankind, he didn't know where his life would lead him next. He had been so sure that he could continue on as his old self once more, with a few small changes, but what if he followed Boomerang's desire and left with Luceid instead? Would he ever see Catherine and Kaitlyn again?

__

I have no idea… I love them both…

Kuronegaiken all of a sudden sent a faint shock of electricity up his arm, causing his nerves to twang a little in very mild pain, more of an alarm system than an actual method to cause pain. The sword, and Luceid inside it, was warning him about something. Clive looked down at the weapon and noticed with a slight sinking feeling that faint lines were being drawn along the sword's blade, thin indentations that connected with each other and formed the depiction of Ka Dingel itself, the picture that was one branded into the body of the older and larger version of the sword. As Clive watched, the lines that made up the tower turned blood red and dissipated into smoke, rising away from the blue metal. Luceid had spoken.

He felt a rushed force slam him in the stomach, forcing him backward and knocking all the air out of his lungs, an invisible attack that had caught Clive completely off his guard. He heard the chittering and snarling of some wild rabid beast, so, in taking gasping breaths to gather air back into his lungs, he willed his weapon to generate light, feeding off his aura into illumination. It revealed to him what was lurking in the dark in a discernible physical form. This was not one of Ravendor's memories, otherwise it would have been unable to properly touch him, this was no less than one of his own, brought to life by his reminiscence. Clive stood tall and prepared himself for battle.

It was one of the small, black monkey-like demon drones that Boomerang had fought as his last living battle at the foot of Ka Dingel. The creatures that had swarmed over him, and with sharp little nails like daggers, they had torn him into thousands of tiny shreds. They had ripped him, like a pack of starving vultures, into a mess of bloody pieces. Clive couldn't help but feel a cold prickly sensation wash over his being as he recognised the creature sitting on it's scaly black haunches in front of him. It's milky-white eyes bore no pupils and it was difficult for Clive to tell if the beast was looking at him or some other area in the gloom. Drool dripped in gooey strings from it's pointed saw-like teeth, and it's rustling leathery bat wings were ratty and filled with holes, rips and tears. It chittered noisily, like a rodent, and looked at him eerily with a strange kind of smirk.

"Disgusting." Clive said with revulsion, "No better than the last time I tangled with the likes of you and your brethren. I will cut you down." It was easy, the beast didn't even put up a fight or move when Clive raised his sword and cut it cleanly in two, horizontally, separating it's torso from it's lower body. It fell apart in two great chunks and white pus spurted from the huge wound, like thin spills of milk with the occasional yellowish blob of congealed suppuration. It smelt sickening to Clive's advanced senses, and he held his nose in repugnance. The arms of the creature flailed weakly as it lost feeling in all of it's nerves, and like one final death cry, it let out a shrill, ear-piercing shriek, one that was quickly silenced by the end of Clive's blade. "There," The swordsman said as he pulled his weapon out of the still and silent corpse, his smile slightly frightening, "Rest in pieces, scum."

He was then suddenly trapped in a deadly circle. Clive stiffened and spun around, narrowing his eyes behind his cracked glasses. At least a dozen more demon drones had silently crept up on him while he was dispatching the first miscreant, using those precious moments of distraction to pre-empt and surround their quarry. Excited by the scent of their own pussy blood, they hopped up and down like screeching monkeys, their long arms with thin hooked fingers grasping eagerly at the air. Clive gritted his teeth and flicked his sword slightly in order to shake off all the white lesser-demon blood, taking a small step back and leaning down a little, getting ready to spring. "Fine. If you wish to die, then approach and let me grant you your wish, I will not allow myself to fall again to your accumulated power, there is far too much at stake." The next word he uttered sounded more like it was pronounced with Boomerang's voice, and not Clive's at all. "Come." He said with a tone like thunder, booming with authority.

The next ten seconds of his life was nothing more than an adrenaline-filled blur. The lesser-demons had dove upon him like flies onto a tasty meal, slashing at him, grabbing his clothing and trying to chew through it to the flesh underneath. The shining blue blade of Kuronegaiken lashed out at the demons like a viper in a mad rage, cutting off a limb here, creating a fatal gash there, Clive could have sworn that he saw for a split second the head of one of the drones rolling away as the body toppled over, totally decapitated. The stench of blood and pus was nearly overwhelming, in him was born an intense desire to get away from the invisible stink waves that assaulted his senses, but he could not hope to keep his life until every last monster was stone dead. It was like his vision had been coated with a thin layer of the colour red, warlust took him over, and before he knew it, he was the last one standing amongst a strewn pile of severed limbs and twitching bodies, breathing raggedly with sweat beading on his blood-splashed face.

Clive leant on his sword as he dug the end into the ground, sinking down to his knees with both his hands laced firmly over the hilt and grip of the weapon, pressing his cheek against the flat and harmless side of the pommel, trying to control his breaths. He was more or less unhurt, the drones small jagged teeth had been unable to get past the leather of his red coat, which thankfully covered up most of the vital parts of his body. He still ached though, from the physical exertion. "A long time ago I would have enjoyed that…" He whispered to his blade, to the dormant spirit of the desire Guardian lurking within, "But not anymore! I hate battle now, slaughter sickens me. I have changed, somehow. Human life has most definitely changed me, and you know, I do not ever want to go back. This is Boomerang's new wish."

He stayed there for a long time, many minutes, trying to gather his expelled strength back into his body. _I cannot help but wonder,_ He told himself quietly, _If no matter what, I am a sinner. I killed my own kind back then, humans, and now I kill my own kind again, the demons. They were only lesser drones, mere wretches… but still… are any kind of lesser demon sentient? We were all built from the same mold, the human mold…_

The swordsman levered himself to his feet, faintly hearing something amidst the grotesque scene of massacre. A weak, whining noise, muffled by the piled bodies. Homing in on the sound, Clive rolled a few bodies aside and reluctantly picked up a severed head, tossing it away. The metal demon bit his lip, underneath the pile and quaking was a still living smallish demon drone, missing an entire leg while it's right wing was nothing more than a bloodied stump, oozing pus. It was curled up into the tightest ball it could form, claws over it's face, making the tiny, shuddery whining noise. It looked so pathetic, frightened, even. However, Clive knew with a stabbing pain in the pit of his stomach that perhaps this creature once had human ancestors, and apart from rank and birthright, they were no different from each other. Biologically, he was the same.

In a show of remarkably human emotion, it was crying.

"Yes. I know. So, even demons can cry…" Said Clive sadly, morosely, as he swiftly and painlessly ended it's life.

xxx

A short while later, at the threshold of the long metallic corridor, Clive was surprised to find Catherine standing outside of it, warily looking in. Clive wondered how she got there, because both their paths had become separate a little while ago. She looked a tad pale, and she held something in both hands that was indistinguishable from Clive's current point of view. He approached from behind and gently put his hand on her shoulder, accidentally startling her and knocking her out of her thoughts. She jumped and spun around, grabbing his arm by the wrist as if she feared that he had been somebody else. Discovering that it was only her husband, she visibly relaxed, putting the thing that she had in her hand back into the pocket of her dress. "Catherine! What are you doing here? Are you alright?" Clive asked, surprised. "Wait a moment," He said, coming to a realization, "Have you seen Kaitlyn? Is she safe?"

He sheathed his sword and took Catherine's other shoulder, quite worried about if she was okay. The ex-drifter nodded and leaned forward to hug him, the metal demon obligingly putting his arms around her. "I haven't seen her." Catherine replied unhappily. "I have only been here for a very short while. I'm not sure what happened, it felt like the path I was walking on dissolved and dropped me off here. I think I must have been upset, but I know I saw some truly terrible things." Like Clive, she thought of Kaitlyn and became even uneasier. "This is only the spectral backstage of Ravendor's memory. Nothing here can hurt her, right?" She asked.

"Right. We must trust in her ability to keep herself out of harm's way, for now, we cannot protect her ourselves. Come, Catherine." He looked down the metallic corridor, breaking their embrace and then taking her hand. "It is time for us to silence the monster that Ravendor has become. Once and for all. Will you stay with me? Will you fight with me, just like when we were younger?" Clive smiled and squeezed her hand, "The leader of the Black Shucks requests that his Aegis be ready to stand by his side. Is the order copied?"

"Whatever you say, Boss." Catherine answered, a tremendous feeling of excitement created by the thudding of her heart making her fingertips tingle indescribably. She had not called Clive 'Boss' for an untold amount of years. Unexpectedly, the air beneath her hands solidified and turned to metal and dragon fossil, the Gungnir ARM manifesting itself like it was called, in ready condition to be used. Shifting her grip, she slid her index finger in a waiting position over the trigger, activating the bolt with the other and then keeping a steady hold of the underside of the barrel. Clive unsheathed Kuronegaiken again, and together, they took their very first step into the sinister-looking metal hallway.

As soon as they set both their feet on the cold and corporeal floor, the darkness that they had been standing in faded quickly away like a light going out, the two drifters finding themselves sealed by three walls and a ceiling. They were in a very narrow cul-de-sac, their backs pressed up against the wall, and the only way to go on now was forwards. Catherine turned around and pressed down on the wall that had formed behind them, expecting for it to come away like a secret passageway. It was solid, palpable, but smooth and cold, as real as any real wall in true reality. It was an interesting colour though, green and black with small bits of yellow, swirled around into dizzy shapes and patterns, like a wild kind of wallpaper. It felt like marble in it's texture, but Clive moved on and Catherine followed him, leaving her mystery to rest without a solution.

Clive helped her to clear up one important query that bothered her mind, precisely where they were. "This looks a lot like the tower of Yggdrasil, the headquarters of the Prophets. I told you about this place, didn't I?" He asked. Catherine nodded in affirmation. "Yes. This is the place where the plot to rejuvenate the world was attempted, and warped into a sinister scheme to summon demons back into the world. The Prophets also managed to animate a sentient artificial life in the shell of a modified golem, mass produce common monsters to hinder the human population, and try and turn humans into demons. I suspect that Ravendor must have been their Kamikaze project, if all else fails, he was supposed to complete what they could not. Well, Catherine, this is their Tree of Life, where they forged their plans of death."

"The Tree of Death…" Catherine whispered, running one of her slender hands along the smoothness of the wall as she walked. There was a quiet sound in the air, a gentle humming, coupled with the feeling that the floor was slightly vibrating. It felt like the entire building itself was one great big generator, and if so, and Clive had told her about this before, then the top floor must accumulate all that power into one giant storage unit. According to her husband, it was the storage unit that the dream-demon used to create her own Filgaia. Was the energy in this tower that powerful?

The swordsman already knew where Ravendor was waiting for him. It was not at the top floor, as he would have originally guessed, but Malik's floor, the floor of cloning and genetic manipulation. The same place where the blonde-haired Prophet had woven his sickening plans to bring his mother back from the dead. Clive wouldn't have been surprised if Ravendor had been assigned to work on that project as well. In any case, he didn't really feel like thinking about it too much. Catherine tore her attention away from the wall and decided to look at the floor, holding onto Gungnir apprehensively. "…Clive?" She said unexpectedly, "There… um… there's something I need to tell you… About Ravendor…"

He looked at her, adjusting his glasses. "Yes?" He asked, smiling.

Catherine lost her nerve. "Oh… No, it's nothing. Don't worry about it, honey. It's nothing." She also tried to smile her unusual action away, mentally sighing on the inside. Clive nodded, trusting her completely and leading her up a small flight of stairs. The ex-drifter felt terrible. The one thing she needed to tell him and she couldn't say a word. If this was Ravendor's memory, then the topic would turn up eventually, but Catherine secretly hoped that she would never have to hear about it again. Catherine could still remember the promise she made nearly seventeen years ago, how she was sworn into an awkward silence that she really wished to break.

They were almost there, the pair finally reaching a perfectly chiseled door. He halted in his tracks, letting go of Catherine's hand and holding it out in front of her body, to prevent her from going any further. She stopped and turned to him, about to say something, when Clive put his fingers to his lips and shook his head. "Listen," He said very quietly, "We must not make any noise, once we go through this door, we will be at our destination. I do not want to go rushing blindly into battle, understand?"

"I understand." She whispered, tensely gripping the Gungnir. Clive pressed his hand against the door, over the spot where a doorknob was supposed to have been and where the intricate series of swirls seemed to converge into a tiny little circle. It lit up as it reacted to his touch and the door slid open silently, allowing them ingress. Both of them did not deny the fact that they were a little afraid, but throwing that emotion into the wind, they entered. The door slid closed behind them, and without any living being there to witness it's existence, the room disappeared forever, dissolving into bleak and absolute nothingness.

xxx

__

"So, this is the way that you have chosen to die."

Clive and Catherine both tensed as they initially believed the words that they had heard were directed at them, but they soon discovered otherwise. With complete and total silence, they moved over to one of the walls of the room, stepping lightly so that their feet would not give away their presence by the echoes of the metallic floor. Clive recognised the giant glass tank that had contained the empty shell of Malik's cloned mother with ease, there were a few of them there, and nearly all of them were empty. Ravendor was standing in front of the only occupied one in the room, his back to the two drifters and his arms folded, looking up at the thick glass tube. Clive noticed something strange, this Ravendor was lacking everything that had made him a demon, wings, claws, tail, dark evil aura and all. This Ravendor was completely and utterly human, untouched by the Prophets and their twisted experiments. "Yes." He replied, unwavering. "There is no salvation for me. I understand this now. There is nothing, just sin."

And behind this human variation, only a few paces away, was a small child. He was only wearing a white shirt and dark shorts, but one of his arms was broken and tied in a sling, bound across his front. In his uninjured hand, he was holding onto an unusually-shaped stuffed animal, looking like a cross between a bear and a cat. The boy had his head down, and he was staring at the floor. There was something about this boy that was just heart-shatteringly sad, but, the boy held a fake kind of quality about him, like he was not really real. It was like this boy was a puppet, a shade of a former self. It was this boy that had spoken, to the human Ravendor, actually, it seemed like they were arguing. The two drifters both decided at once to stay quiet and listen for as long as they possibly could, to see what was transpiring in front of them.

The boy flinched at the remark and squeezed the arm of his toy, looking up for the first time. He had not been crying, his green eyes were clear, though filled with vague sadness. He took one tiny, tentative step forward, and pressed one little fist against his chest, his toy leaning in the crook of his broken arm. _"Clive and Catherine were only trying to help you. They want to help you. They don't want you to suffer anymore. Why won't you let them help you?"_

Ravendor snorted and smiled crookedly, shaking his head slowly. "Perhaps I do not deserve to be helped." He said in a low voice, unfolding his arms and touching an ungloved hand to the surface of the glass tank. In it slept the modified demon, Project Dark Angel. Ravendor was watching it sleep quietly, and he added; "Besides, as soon as Project Dark Angel fully awakens, I will lose my body, and my memory will at last be erased for good. It will be a death without dying, an ultimate death. When that happens, I will no longer have to remember everything that happened, all the horrible, horrible things. The things I hated, the things I lost… I will forget everything, and the pain will finally go away…"

The child looked shocked and hurt, allowing a little bit of fear to emerge from his spirit. _"But why?!"_ He cried bitterly, _"How come you won't ever let anybody help me?! How come **I** never get to ask for help?! I'm so tired of you locking me away in the dark! I'm scared of the dark! You put me in a darkness that won't go away!"_ He ran up to and around Ravendor, so he could look up at his older self face-to-face. Dropping the stuffed toy, tears began to bead in the little boy's eyes, making him sniff faintly to hold the tears back.

"No!" Ravendor shouted, his stronger voice echoing around the metallic room. He balled both his hands into fists and forced his eyes shut, clenching his teeth. "I am never going to trust anybody ever again. Not in this world, not in the next, not ever. I am so sick and tired of being betrayed by those that I trust, it is just easier if I do not trust anybody at all. Mother left me, Kaitlyn died, Catherine found another, Melody decided to become somebody else, and even Clive decided to turn his back and walk away. Am I that worthless? Nobody ever comes to save me, no matter what I do, no matter how long I wait!"

__

"Nobody comes… because you never ask for help. If you just wait for salvation, nothing will ever change." The child started to cry, silent tears rolling down his cheeks._ "Please… Please trust somebody… anybody… Ask them for help… Bring me out of this locked darkness… Please…?" _Catherine again felt a huge urge to run up and console the poor boy, but Clive gently tightened his hand around her wrist and held her there, not taking his eyes off what he was seeing. His mahogany eyes were piercing, he was intently listening to every world that was being said, analyzing.

For a few moments, Ravendor lost the tone of his refined accent and spoke in a constricted, almost frightened voice. "I can't!" He yelled, "What if I ask for help and nobody answers?! What if I really am all alone?! What if… in all this darkness… this despair… there really **_is_** no way out?" He calmed down a little and knelt, firmly grabbing the little boy's shoulder. "No. I am so tired of this life, I am so sick of being me. Project Dark Angel can take my body, he can use my soul, as long as he completely erases my memory. There is just no salvation left, little one. No hope, either. Please understand."

The boy nodded dejectedly through his tears. Meekly, he reached his unburdened hand into his sling and pulled out something small and metallic, plain yet beautiful. He held up the shining silver cross and looked at his older self, swallowing hard so he could find the strength to speak. _"And this? Do you wanna forget the owner of this cross too? Do you wanna forget Kaitlyn and everything that she meant to us? If we die, her memory dies too. I don't want her to die."_ Hesitantly, Ravendor reached down and picked up the cross from the boy's open palm, the silver shining even more beautifully in the most tragic of scenarios. It was, truthfully, the most precious thing that he owned. The child stopped crying and wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, finally giving a small, almost tired smile. Then, the holy power of the cross leaving his body, the small child crumbled away into dust.

Ravendor looked at it with a masked expression, neither positively nor negatively. Sighing, he released the charm and it fell into the little pile of dust, rejecting it and the offer of salvation it held. "God help me, I can never go back." He said with a wavering voice, slowly turning around to meet the two drifters observing them from the far wall. Ravendor's expression didn't change when he noticed them, he did not seem surprised at all. Clive noticed that although Ravendor appeared to be well-dressed and in physically good shape, his aura felt haggard, gaunt and worn out.

"So you found me. This is where I was reborn." He said to the two drifters, folding his arms again, "And where I shall be reborn again. However, this time, it will be without a soul. The perfect demon has no soul, it needs no soul, all it requires is the power and means to kill all that is alive." He laughed ironically, albeit a little forcedly. "You know, Catherine, Clive… eleven years ago I was terrified of the thought that I was no longer human, but admittedly, a part of me _welcomed_ the chance to become a demon, a soulless demon, a being that does not experience pain, sadness," He paused, sighing out the last two words, "…Or loss."

"And yet that is not what you desire." Clive cut in, closing his eyes. "What you desire is what you have lost. You just want big sister Kaitlyn to come back, don't you? But Ravendor, you have to accept the fact that she is _not coming back_, understand? No matter how much you wish it to be otherwise, she is dead." He raised his voice a little. "Kaitlyn is dead! Your life with her is dead!" Catherine squeezed Clive's wrist as tightly as she possibly could, biting her lip hard and trying to make him stop. He just didn't understand the full extent of the loss, not just yet.

"I know that! Do you think I do not know that?!" He cried heatedly, "I have no choice but to keep on living! You forced me to live! All the time we knew each other you would not let me die! I would have destroyed myself the moment I became a demon if the gias bomb living inside of me did not react to my innermost thoughts! Instead… instead… all I can do is wait and hope and pray that maybe God might come down from Heaven someday and _finally_ bring her back! I know this will never happen, but what _else_ can I accredit seventeen years of unwanted life for?!"

"…You hate yourself, don't you?" Clive asked softly.

"Yes," Ravendor answered simply, "I do."

Catherine stood a little way off, having released her grip on Clive, she was holding a small black leather book, the Gungnir resting by her side, scribbling something down as quickly and as legibly as she could. It was the old Black Shuck diary, and there was room enough for one more entry, just one more. Catherine hoped that it would be the most important one, because it was time for her to have her say. In truth, Halle had told her a few extra things that she had not mentioned to anybody else, instructing her to reveal her secrets when she herself felt it was the best time. And, that time was now. Quietly, moving with an intrusive force that only a woman could bear, she stood between Clive and Ravendor and faced the latter, holding the book out to him calmly. "The last page holds an entry only for you," She said, "For everything important we have ever shared, please look at it."

For a few seconds, the dark-haired man seemed to think about what she said, but then, with great care, Ravendor took the book from Catherine's open hands and opened it, slowly flicking through each page yellowed with age and recognising each different style of handwriting as memories recorded by his friends and associates from years ago. Some entries were even written by he himself, but he ignored them, for they no longer held any significance or importance. He reached the last page somewhere in the back of the book, dated not over ten or twenty years ago, but the very same day that they all were living at that moment. It was in Catherine's handwriting, only being written minutes before. "Please read it," Catherine said imploringly, "Out loud, so we can all hear."

"…November the second, in the year eighteen seventy-four, anno domini." He began reading it meticulously but clearly, obeying Catherine's command. "Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Ravendor Begucci. He was born into a loveless and negligent family that did not offer him the care that a small child deserved. So, severing his family ties, he gained a new identity and purpose amongst a different class of people and thrived, living as Ravendor Begucci the larrikin, not Ravendor Begucci the son of the Duke. It was as this new person did he find the happiness that he had been searching for. However, circumstance caused him to lose the two most precious things he could ever love or desire in his entire lifetime, and defining himself and his self-value by that loss, he tried to throw his life away. The one who saved him, Clive Winslett, the Wolf spirit of the Martyr, bore the bullet that would have taken Ravendor Begucci's life and fulfilled the duty inherent within his animal spirit. Nonetheless, this boy still suffers through a cycle of guilt and blame, because the true meaning of the Raven spirit is the spirit of the Victim, the unwilling sacrifice. The one who is wounded in exchange for the happiness of others."

Ravendor dropped the book, it slid out of his hands without the dark-haired man making any move to stop it. His hands had gone limp. It landed on the cold metal floor, spine upward, pages bent as it pressed against the unyielding surface. Clive instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword, a move he was constantly making each time Ravendor did something the swordsman did not expect. Ravendor seemed to become ever paler than he already was and he fell to his knees, squeezing the chain of his silver cross as tightly as he possibly could in his left hand as he picked it up out of the dust again. "…The victim?" He said in a dazed voice. "The one who suffers in place of others?"

"Yes," Said Catherine, "The true meaning of Baskarian wolf spirit and the Baskarian raven spirit are so closely similar that they are often mistaken to be the same idol. They both attract misfortune and deflect it from those they love, however, the only difference between the two is the presence of willpower. The wolf spirit assumes this role willfully, throwing himself in front of others to shield them from harm, while the raven spirit does not have a choice in his actions, a broken shell that has nobody left to protect. Ravendor, every time you lost something, Clive would always end up gaining something. This is because the ones Clive supported would also protect him in times when he was weak, while you withdrew into your own world and aided nobody, relied on nobody, so there was nobody left to aid you back."

"No. Untrue. There was somebody else I protected. There was somebody else I loved." Ravendor argued quietly with her. "Isabelle. I tried to protect Isabelle. It is my fault that she died, I could not protect her _or_ Kaitlyn. I tried my best, but they still died. I failed, and that is my sin." He stood up again and looked at the silver cross back in his hand. It seemed to shine all the more brightly when only _he_ held it. It felt… warm. There was warmth within it, though he did not know why. "Kaitlyn and I were going to give this to her when she was old enough, provided luck was on our side. We both planned ahead far too much…" He laughed falsely, it was horrible to hear.

"…Isabelle?" Clive echoed, confused.

The bandit-leader glanced at Catherine who had her head down and was biting the mid-joint of her index finger in anxiety. And so the emergence into this most horrible of memories had begun again. Ravendor did not allow Catherine to artfully dodge the issue, quite the opposite, he plunged her straight into the midst of it. "Catherine, you never told Clive about Isabelle?" He asked, "I suppose I must thank you for that, I _did_ make you promise to never say a word about it. Why don't you enlighten him now? I would do it myself, except that I cannot speak about it without losing my voice or something similarly awful."

She shook her head in negativity and let out a shuddering breath before defeatedly giving in. She could only hope that Clive would be able to forgive her for not saying a word when she should. "It was a hidden secret that only the female members of the Black Shuck gang and Ravendor himself knew about, we each swore to keep the truth from you and the others unless Kaitlyn wanted you to know. Actually, Kaitlyn was quite afraid that if you found out, Clive, you'd get upset and beat Ravendor to an inch of his life. Yes, so, she swore us all to silence. She was like a big sister to you, to all of us younger children, wasn't she?" Clive nodded silently, taking his hand of the hilt of his sword. Kaitlyn, before she passed away, had been like the mother Clive never had. His confusion did not lessen. What was this reminiscence heading towards, and why couldn't Ravendor speak about it himself?

"Clive…" Catherine murmured, deciding to admit it just as bluntly as possible, "When Kaitlyn died, she was with child. Ravendor's child." There, she had said it. There was a very deep and long silence, Clive didn't move. It looked like he was mulling the information about in his head, going over it a few times as meticulously as possible. Ravendor, similarly, had completely masked his emotion as well.

"Yes…" Clive said at last. "I would have indeed beaten him to an inch of his life, friend or not." His reaction appeared to have been subdued by an inner force, perhaps some kind of intense mental willpower. "You know, I never noticed. It was probably because I was too stupid back then, or maybe you were both just extensively good at hiding things." Clive's words were a little sharp, almost hurt. Kaitlyn _had_ been his adopted sister and mother, after all. "How far along was she?" He asked, directing his question at Ravendor.

"Long enough for us to know that it was going to be a girl, if you wish to know." He replied while turning away from them, looking once more at the glass tank that held the darker half of his soul. He wished that it would awaken soon, and cease this unwanted painful reminiscence. "Long enough for me to give her a name. It is quite ironic, actually. You have no idea, Clive, of how jealous I am of you. You so desperately wanted to be a _real_ drifter and scour the wasteland all alone for treasure, to be a feared and dreaded outlaw, and I so desperately wanted what you have right now. It seems that we have lived each other's lives by mistake, does it not? Actually," He continued, "You must have wondered what I saw when I looked at your daughter for the first time, Clive. I saw Catherine first, which was understandable, and then I saw in her Kaitlyn too, but that is not who she resembles to me."

"Who did you see?" Questioned the swordsman, awaiting the answer.

"I suppose I saw Isabelle in her, I suppose that was the reason why I could never have hoped to kill her in the end. If Kaitlyn had not died, Isabelle would have been sixteen this year, she would have been almost an adult. I wonder what she would have looked like? But she is dead now with her mother, and now maybe I can die too and be with them again. In doing this," He tapped the glass of the tank, "I can erase both my sin and my memory at the very same time. How… convenient. I know I am taking the easy way out, but let me ask you Clive, what in the world is wrong with taking the easy way out?" He turned back around to face the two, Clive and Catherine both stood there with mixed expressions. The dark-haired man smiled bitterly. "There, so now you know everything about me. I have failed as a son, I have failed as a father, but I will _not_ allow myself to fail as a murderer, that at least I can do. Yet, I need a little more time to prepare. Project Dark Angel has not woken up yet. Leave."

Upon saying this last word, Ravendor snapped his fingers and the patch of floor underneath the two drifter's feet changed from a solid into a liquid, suddenly losing to ability to keep them in their place. The sunk into the fluid like one would sink into a gooey mass of quicksand, only with far more haste and efficiency. They hardly had the time to take in a lungful of air before they went in over their heads, disappearing for the time being. Ravendor was left in silence. Opening his palm, he stared at the silver chain bearing the holy cross, like he was silently asking it for answers. Then, he voiced them out loud. "I deserve this, don't I?" He said.

Like a virus made solely for the tarnishing of alloy, a black taint consumed the shine of the metal, eating away at it like rust accelerated a thousand fold, turning the pure silver white into a dull greyish black. The warmth of the metal disappeared, becoming as cold as a simple piece of rusty iron.

And he had gotten his answer.

xxx

On the floor below, part of the ceiling turned to liquid for a split second, long enough to hurt Clive and Catherine out of it's depths and onto the hard cold floor underneath it, the metal demon painfully landing on his stomach with a grunt, while he suffered doubly as Catherine's fall had chosen him as it's landing point. She landed on top of him and his back protested loudly to the rest of his body, though he was rather grateful that she had managed a safer descent than himself. Groaning, because the butt of the Gungnir had hit him in the back of his ribs, he pulled himself out from under Catherine and lay on his back on the floor, overwhelmed by everything that had hit him like a wave that refused to break upon the shore. Looking up, the ceiling had shifted back into it's previous solid form. He sighed heavily, wondering once more where Kaitlyn was and if she was safe.

"Sometimes it feels like I know nothing." Clive admitted as he languidly laid the back of his hand over his eyes. "I didn't know. I thought he was mourning for Kaitlyn, but it turned out he was mourning something far worse. If I had know that, maybe I… maybe I would not have stopped him from…"

"No Clive." Catherine disagreed, leaning over and looking down at him. "Do not ever say that. You did the right thing. You saved his life, you acted like a true friend. How on Filgaia can that be counted as a bad thing?" Clive smiled a little, taking his hand away from his eyes. It brushed something lying beside his body, something small and old and made of leather. It was the old diary. When the floor had turned to liquid, the book must have fallen with them as well. The swordsman sat up, tiredly rubbing his neck. Catherine removed the leather strap that hung off her ARM, it was becoming a nuisance that she wanted to get rid of. Half-closing her eyes, she traced a small dent in the weapon's barrel, the indentation shallow but noticeable.

Clive said something Catherine did not expect to hear, surprising her a little bit. "I had never been so empty before, the moment I realised that I might never see you or Kaitlyn again, when I first remembered becoming a lycanthrope. It felt like a part of me had been destroyed, or surgically cut away, it did indeed feel like, I mean, there was a part of me that just wished to lay down and die. It did make me think, that without my family, what else did I have left to live for?" He traced the golden lettering on the cover of the book with his index finger, quietly contemplative. "I felt this pain for two long days, I thought it would eventually drive me mad."

__

And yet, Clive continued in his mind, _Ravendor has felt this exact same pain for seventeen years without rest. No wonder he wishes to die. And I, like a fool, forced him to live. Did I even see… what kind of hell I was damming him to?_ His tracing finger reached the edge of the book, involuntarily flicking the cover open. He began to flick through the pages half-heartedly, paying more attention to his own thoughts than the words out in front of him.__

"Nobody comes… because you never ask for help. If you just wait for salvation, nothing will ever change."

That small child had been right. In all the years that Clive could remember, he could never recall Ravendor asking him for help, not even once. In fact, Clive had avoided many people's personal problems because he didn't like the idea of becoming too involved himself, just in case he could not help the person he tried to aid. Helping Ravendor that night was one of the first times he had tried, and now he wasn't sure of he regretted it or not, because maybe it would have been better for them both to have just allowed him to die. _That's wrong,_ He argued, _It was the first time I decided to care, and after that, I kept on caring. If I didn't start to care back then, what kind of person would I be now?_ Some writing on one of the pages caught his eye, and like a twist of fate, he focussed himself enough to read it.

__

"Kaitlyn came back from the doctor today and she told me everything. Then, I suffered a blank period and I woke up about an hour later. Catherine told me that I had fainted. I suppose I was just in shock, but I cannot lie about this. I am so happy. So happy! Kaitlyn is ecstatic, I have never seen her smile so much, though we both admit that we are truly scared. Yet, this must be some kind of sign from God. I am **not** going to let the same thing that happened to me ever happen again. I will try and be the best father possible, I know I can do it. I know that I will help Kaitlyn every step of the way."

Clive closed the book and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a strange sensation of familiarity making him itch at the very edge of his own recollection. He had not been insanely angry before at hearing about Isabelle… because… He wasn't sure how he knew, but he had heard about it somewhere before… a very long time ago…

The memory pierced his mind so quickly that the swordsman even physically flinched as a reaction. It had come back to him with the momentum of an express train in his mind. Another memory that Yggdrasil had robbed from him had finally returned.

xxx

It was the dead of night. The only illumination that guided travelers at that time of night was a full, nearly blue moon, hanging overhead like a shining rounded pearl, and the countless scattering of stars dotting the night sky, every so often obscured by a wayward cloud. He had trouble seeing in the darkness, trying to differentiate between the battered dirt path stretching in front of him and all the rest of the dirt that coated the semi-dry wasteland. Stiff grass was sometimes underfoot, and when he noticed this, he knew that he had strayed off the path. He was carrying with him a smaller boy, thinner and weedier, with grass-green hair and ratty, cheap looking clothes. The boy was flung over his back like a piggyback ride, blood from a bullet wound to his arm dripping down his side. He only seemed half-conscious of his surroundings, everything was thrown into a pain-filled haze. Clive groaned, his throat feeling like it was lined with dust and sandpaper.

"Thank the Guardians you're so light."

Clive tensed a little at the sudden intrusion of the voice into his hazy, wounded world, regretting the action instantly as it caused a muscle in his arm to tighten and feel the flecks of shrapnel embedded in his flesh, around the torn hole that still had a half-shattered bullet buried inside. Clive groaned again, and then shivered, the night was uncharacteristically cold tonight. He didn't remember what he was doing out here, where by all rights he should have been back in Little Twister and in his bed. He also wanted to know why his arm was hurting so very much. Did he get into a fight, or something? If so, why was he out here in the middle of nowhere, being carried around by his big brother like a baby? It didn't make any sense, though he had the feeling that he was supposed to know why.

"I would have had far too much trouble otherwise. Are you alright? I'm sorry, I could not find any help for your injury, even my horse seems to have wandered away. I shall have to try and find her again later. But, I am sure that once I get you back to Little Twister Catherine should be able to do something for you and your wound. Clive, can you hear me?" Ravendor asked, breathing a little labored from the strain of having to carry an extra person on his back. He had already lost far too much blood to be in good health, and a painful-looking wound to the side of his face leaked blood into his eye. His wrists had been cut up badly by self-inflicted causes, but the blood had already dried up completely. They both looked like two victims of violent physical abuse.

"…Swanky, how come my arm hurts so much…?" Clive slurred weakly, his hair ruffled by the midnight breeze. They passed under a tree for a few moments, and an intricate network of shadows was cast over both their bodies. It bore a thick set of drying, crispy leaves. If it were daylight, they would have seen that the leaves were a deep autumn orange and red. The boy tried to move his arm himself, but it was becoming numb by the gradual shutdown of his nerve endings in the affected area.

"Because I shot you." Ravendor explained. "Because you tried to stop me from killing myself. It is very strange, I do not feel like myself anymore. It feels like I am out of my body, if you know what I mean. I think I may have a concussion, I might not remember the rest of what happened tonight. But, do I even want to remember?" He sighed and attempted to kick at a rock that was lying in the middle of the weathered dirt path. "There is no one else of whom I can talk to, and I will not even remember my own words. Clive, I know you probably are too hurt to understand what I am saying, but please, will you listen to me?"

"…Nnnnhh…" Moaned the boy as a feeble answer.

Ravendor took that as an affirmative reply. Pausing and taking a short rest, he set Clive up against a large rock and took a seat beside him, fumbling around in his pocket for a spare cigarette. He found one, though a little crumpled, and lit it with his lighter, inhaling the smoke and hoping that it would take away some of his aching pain. The dark-haired teen then took Clive's pulse, found that it was a little low and that the boy was shivering from the cold, having neglected to bring with him a jacket or coat. All he was wearing was a thin brown shirt and patched pants, very dirty as it was. Sighing, Ravendor removed his jacket and put it on Clive, not touching the boy's wounded arm and leaving it out of one of the jacket sleeves. Afterwards, he begrudgingly took out Clive's small switchblade and cut a very long strip out of the white piece of attire, using the thick fabric as material for a temporary sling. Now Clive was warm and his wound no longer hurt as much. The boy smiled slightly, his ice-blue eyes clouded with disorientation. "…T-thanks." He said, his breath visible as a small cloud of fog in the chilly air.

The older boy was quiet for a very long time, listening to the crickets chirping from places that he could not see. From the way they made their own little individual noises, it almost sounded like a unique brand of music. The stars were exceptionally majestic that night, though unlike other nights, they offered him no comfort at all. The dark-haired teen somehow felt that the stars were trying to mock him for his loss, but then, he decided to ignore it and he spoke. His words were slow, like it took a tremendous effort for him to speak at all. "When Kaitlyn died… I lost everything that was ever important to me, everything that I always wanted. All I wanted was her, only her. Nothing else."

He let the ash on the end of his cigarette smolder for a while, the small burning red line of embers eating away the roll of paper and herbs within. "I never told you about Isabelle, did I? I was afraid to tell you, and so was Kaitlyn. She had often told me that you were like a son to her. But Clive, I think that discovering the possibility of Isabelle had so far been the best moment of my life. She was going to be beautiful. Just like her mother. I know what Kaitlyn and I did was wrong, but it gave us both an incentive to hang on, just in case, in the feeble hopes that, just maybe… maybe her illness might someday be gone for good, and she could lead a long healthy life. We had a goal, a tangible reason to hope, something to look forward to, no matter how slim the chances. For a long time, we all thought that she had beaten it, that she had finally won. But then… You don't know what it's like to lose a daughter _and_ your beloved at the same time… do you?"

Clive did not answer. He had his eyes closed and his head had lolled to one side, though he still seemed to be awake. Ravendor didn't even know if Clive could hear him, but speaking about it was just enough to make him feel the tiniest bit better. It was like talking to a brick wall, but Ravendor continued to speak, vaguely scratching meaningless shapes in the dust. "If Kaitlyn had managed to survive, when we were old enough, I would have asked her to marry me. I know I am just a boy, but I would have done anything to keep her and Isabelle safe. I would have tried to be the best father and husband as possible and I would have gladly died for them. I don't know what I have left to look forward to anymore, you know? What more do I have left without them? In truth, you are the only reason I am living my life right now, you and Catherine. I cannot think of anybody else that I care about so, Clive, you must do something for me." He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed himself to his feet, absently rubbing silent tears out of his eyes.

"I need you and Catherine to help me," He smiled wearily, picking Clive up again and shifting him over his shoulders, taking hold of the younger boy's legs and continuing his tiring journey back towards Little Twister, "Because you are my last hope."

xxx

This was the truth that he had lost.

"Yes! I remember!" Clive announced, jumping to his feet in alarm. Taking Catherine's hand as she was pacing to and fro while worrying, he ran back up the steps towards the next floor while dragging her gently with him. "Catherine. He asked us to help, years ago, and yet, we did nothing. Now I feel it is time to fulfil that duty, we have to help him, whether he likes it or not. I owe it to the old Ravendor to bring him back." Catherine smiled as she kept up with him, coming to a halt as Clive stopped in front of the closed door. Pressing the button like he did before, this time it did not open. So, he unsheathed his sword. Kuronegaiken flashed, and the sealed door fell apart in two chunks, hissing and melting away into greenish clouds of steam. Clive comfortingly squeezed her hand. "If it is too scary, you do not have to go in." He said.

"I am not scared." She reassured him, leading him back inside. Clive allowed himself to be led, his thoughts still half with his body, the other half going over the past occurrences in his mind. One sentence stuck in his head, and it replayed over and over again, it's impact increasing each time.

__

"You don't know what it's like to lose a daughter and your beloved at the same time… do you?"

I do. Clive said solemnly in his mind. _Now, I do._ _And because of this, I will save you.___

Even if it kills me.


	82. Blight

As soon as Clive stepped through the threshold and back into the room, a sharp wind struck him in the face and caused his cheek to sting, blowing through his hair and carrying with it a malicious intent. It was cold, like an invisible razor blade. Catherine had to throw her hand up to her face to keep her eyes from watering, squinting her eyes shut, her light brown hair wildly thrown about by the wind. Clive's glasses protected him from the onslaught and he looked around the area, coming to the conclusion that this place was _not_ the same room they had been in only minutes before.

They were outdoors in the middle of the night, a warped, deformed night where the dark sky was mixed with colours of black, deep purple and a rich shadowy blue, flecked with crimson red. The stars were merely twisted smears upon this overhead backdrop, flickering like they were trying to pierce through an evil fog that could not be seen. The land about them was in ruin, chunks of marble and granite that once made up a great edifice strewn all about them, resembling fragments of a destroyed church, stone cherubim cracked and left abandoned as vines tipped with lethal-looking spikes grasped them with a silent ferocity. The ground was damp, like it had just been raining, the indescribable scent of an incoming thunderstorm assaulting their senses. Clive recognised the place as a demented version of the deserted church outside Little Twister, of the night where Ravendor had attempted to throw himself away. He was trying to do so again, and like back then, Clive was determined to stop him.

Clive raised both his hands to cup around his mouth and called out the dark-haired man's name, his voice half-drowned out by the rushing wind. "Ravendor!" He cried, "Ravendor! Can you hear me?!" He stepped forward and discovered a startling fact. Gravity was different here, much heavier, and it took an intense amount of energy just to move his legs for that one tentative step. It was as if somebody had attached two half-ton shackles to both of his feet in a ploy to keep him where he was. Behind him, Catherine couldn't move at all and sunk to her knees, both her hands crossed in front of her face to protect her from the violent atmosphere. Clive let go of her hand and strained to take another step forward, grabbing a huge marble block nearby for support.

Step by step, grunting each time, Clive staggered forwards like he was immersed waist-deep in molasses, calling out the bandit leader's name. After what seemed like forever, he came to a kind of clearing bereft of masonry or a dirt-based ground, the floor the cobbled stones of what used to be the floor of the church. The metal demon looked up, brushing his hair out of his eyes to see what was directly in front of him, part of a scene that he would never forget, and had not forgotten for the past seventeen years. It made his throat go bone dry, and his heart thud painfully inside of his chest. It was going to happen all over again.

He was looking at the stone staircase that ended as a jutting edge of a cliff, one that was so high that the bottom could not be seen, even in the daytime. The shape of it was also warped and stuck out far more than it had in reality, but that was not what was causing fear to run rampant in Clive's soul, no, what was _on_ the cliff scared him enough for that. The large glass tank that had been in Malik's laboratory was rooted firmly near the closest part of the cliff as it could, vines constricting it's base and holding it down firmly and safely, so it would not teeter off the edge. Some of the vines had crept along the glass that contained panakeia and supplement blood, giving the device a decidedly organic air to it. Ravendor was standing a few feet away from it, on the second last step of the staircase, with his head bowed as if he were in silent prayer. "Ravendor!" Clive yelled as he took another straining step forwards, "You do not have to do this! Stop it now!"

"…He can't hear you anymore, Daddy." Said Kaitlyn, suddenly appearing by his side and startling Clive just a little. "He will only hear you if he wants to hear you, and he doesn't want to hear anybody right now." Her words were serious and so unlike the girl that it agitated Clive to a small degree. The little girl was staring straight ahead like she was in a light trance, trapped in the same way that Clive appeared to be. However, she had not been standing there a few seconds ago, Clive was certain of that, or else he would have noticed. This kind of reality, the dream world, it was far too spontaneous for it to be trusted..

And yet for some reason, somehow, Ravendor heard Clive's words. Without looking back or looking up, the dark-haired man just shook his head weakly, his voice hardly audible, but still discernable to the others. It was like it was not affected by the rushing wind at all, unhindered and easily heard. "…I cannot stop it now." He whispered with a slight rasp in his tone. "…It is too late for that. The tank is empty." He sighed. "Look above you." Clive obeyed, looking deep into the depths of the glass container. It had not been broken by any external force, it was perfectly intact, yet the being that had previously existed there, Project Dark Angel, was missing. Ravendor was right. The tank _was_ empty. A horrible sensation clawed it's way into Clive's mind, the one that was always felt when something planned had gone terribly wrong.

**__**

"…That is the problem with humans, you see. They cannot help but feel**. It is so disgustingly pitiful and weak."**

The voice Clive heard struck him like a sledgehammer upon his heart. Similarly, Ravendor flinched a little as he heard it. Looking up, at the top of the tank, Clive's mahogany eyes narrowed in anger and aggression. Sitting down on the sealed top of the tank, perched casually, Project Dark Angel watched them like a hawk observing his prey, smiling crookedly and smoking a crumpled old cigarette. The trail of smoke was not caught by the wind, for the small area around the glass tank was surprisingly serene and calm, like the eye of a storm. It was the other incarnation of the dark-haired man, the darker one, the demon created and extracted from Ravendor's broken psyche. Altered and given a physical form by the Prophets, it now held an awesome amount of power. Clive's mediums trembled in fear and cried out into his mind, terrified.

Project Dark Angel's eyes were the most disturbing things of all. They were totally blank, devoid of all inner emotion. It was as if there was nobody else inside, nothing controlling it except for orders given years and years ago. However, this construct held an immense amount of intelligence, which made it far too difficult for Clive to describe. "So _you_ are the poison that the Prophets fed into his mind!" The swordsman exclaimed over the wind. "_You_ are the being I need to eradicate, not him!" Kaitlyn whimpered and stepped behind her father, trying to block the scene out of her mind with the redness of Clive's bloodied coat.

The winged demon ignored Clive completely and jumped down from his tall glass perch, landing in front of the human variation of himself. Smiling demonically, he flicked his cigarette away into the wind and stretched, like one enjoying finally being tangible once more. Ravendor didn't move. He was staring at the space between his shoes and remained silent. His fingers were hooked around the tarnished chain of his cross, though, it was hanging limply and forsaken. Project Dark Angel smiled. **_"It has been too long since I was last awakened. Yet now, poor fool, you wish for me to never leave again?" _**He asked, his voice half real, half engraved into the ether, telepathic and violating the minds of everybody nearby with a resounding quality.

Ravendor nodded in a forced jerky movement, his eyes overshadowed by his fringe of dark hair. "Yes." He replied softly and hesitantly. "I do not want to be human anymore. I want you to take my soul, destroy it, and become me. Put me to sleep forever, Project Dark Angel. That is my wish." Accentuating his words, Ravendor looked up into the eyes of his other self, tortured green ones meeting blank indifferent ones. He was putting on the same withdrawn farce that he had used to protect himself with as a child, succumbing to a greater force. It was there that Clive finally understood how weak Ravendor was, how small, and how much he needed help and support.

Struggling, Clive stepped forward again, trying his best to keep on going. Amazingly, Kaitlyn managed to follow him, clinging to a fold of his coat. She was not as tied down as her father was, free from the weight of the building blocks of memory. However, something was beginning to annoy her in the deepest depths of her mind, something barely out of reach from her conscious recall. This, in turn, made her own motions tied down and heavy, but she still bore the courage to continue on. _I remember…_ She thought, _I remember, a long time ago, in a place that wasn't here… When I wasn't me. I was… somebody else…_Kaitlyn closed her eyes and sniffled. _I don't remember…_

Raising his hand, Project Dark Angel took Ravendor's chin and forced the dark-haired man to look up more closely at him, his smile becoming sadistic. The winged demon was slightly taller, so Ravendor was almost lifted off his feet. **_"You cannot stand to be alone, can you?"_** He accused, **_"You have tried to find peace with anyone, _**anyone**, as long as they would love you in return. Kaitlyn, then Catherine, Melody and even," **At this point the demon chuckled a little, amused. **_"Even our Master Malik. But you do not like to hear about that, do you, human? Of course not. So, you grew tired of the world rejecting you, and you rejected the world instead. A wise move, one that allowed _**me **to be born. For this gesture, Ravendor Begucci, I shall grant you your wish."**

"No!" Clive cried as he ascended the very first step. "I will not let you do this again, Ravendor! I won't!" The shackles on his legs were fabrications created by the original Ravendor, and as long as they were there, the swordsman could not muster the strength needed to help him. However, Ravendor was the only person who could break them. Clive fought with the strength of ten men to climb up the next step, with Kaitlyn unable to continue and falling down at the base of the staircase. From there, all she could do was watch. "Ravendor! Just ask for my aid and I will help you! I swear! Just listen to me!" He was ignored.

The winged demon stepped back a little. With this motion, the glass tank disappeared from the dream world to allow him a little more space, stepping into it and just upon the edge of the cliff. Raising one hand in a ritual manner, Project Dark Angel extended the wing behind it, the feathers hardening back into their lethal state once more. Ravendor bowed his head again, tightening the hand that held the cross just a little bit. Clive fell forward, tripping under the weight of the shackles, unable to stand up anymore, absorbing the brunt of the impact with his hands. He was now within the eye of the storm, and out of the violent winds. He spoke quietly, almost pleadingly now. "There is another way, Ravendor. Do not do this. I am your brother. You are not alone."

He was bracing himself for the inevitable attack that would end the human part of his life for good, but then, just barely able to be seen in the darkness and the misery of the world, one ephemeral tear rolled down his cheek, shed with absolute silence.

"Clive…" Ravendor whispered. "Please help me."

Part of the dream world changed and Clive's legs were suddenly free, the invisible shackles disappearing into nothingness with a potent burst of power. Leaping to his feet and sprinting up the stairs, the swordsman regained motion the very second that Project Dark Angel attacked, the bladed wing coming down like a reaper's scythe. Ravendor didn't attempt to dodge or even defend himself as he was struck across the chest, the soft, yet terrible sound of metal slicing flesh reaching Clive's ears. The swordsman was only three-quarters up the staircase as Ravendor was thrown backwards by the blow, blood splashing up in a red arc as the wing was dislodged from the wound in a smooth motion. Clive watched in a kind of horrified slow-motion as Ravendor's body went past him and landed heavily at the bottom of the stairs, beside Kaitlyn. The huge wound in his front leaked red human blood into his immaculate clothing, and Kaitlyn screamed.

She was sobbing as she shook Ravendor's body in the hopes of waking him up, ignoring the puddle of red blood that was pooling around both of them. The wound across his front was definitely fatal, almost all of his internal organs had been ruptured in some way or another. He seemed to be in shock, a tragic kind of shock, he had honestly expected that Clive would try and save him. The human part of his mind was dying as the demon part assumed total control, a grey blight covered his body and he lost his physical form, fading away like a ghost. The only thing of him that remained was his silver cross, lying sadly by itself on the cobblestones. Her vision blurred by her tears, Kaitlyn just barely noticed the faint shine hidden behind the coating of rust and picked it up, grasping it between her hands and crying even more.

Clive's eyes were wide, he was trembling as he stood near the side of the staircase. He had failed. He had sworn that he would help him, and he had failed. He didn't have the time, there was just not enough time, but still, he had failed. Project Dark Angel flicked his bloodied wing slightly to get rid of the reddish ichor dripping from the metal quills, his dull eyes surveying all that was in front of him. Glancing down at the stunned metal demon, he smiled in satisfaction. **_"Ravendor dared to hope for salvation. Hope only leads to despair and death. He knew this, and yet, he trusted _**you." The winged demon started to laugh mirthfully, finding this truly amusing. **_"Now he will die and be lost in mindless sleep. Forever."_**

"No…" Clive said in refusal, shaking his head and speaking like he was only half-there. "He is not going to die…" He was clenching his free hand so tightly that his nails, slightly longer than they were supposed to be, were drawing blood and biting into his flesh. Furiously, he shot a poisonous glare at the other demon, his gaze like fire. "_You are!_" He roared. Snarling like some kind of wild animal, the swordsman pushed off his step and threw himself at the winged demon, his sword out and flashing in a radiant glory, brilliantly fuelled by the anger of it's master. Kuronegaiken smashed against the metal of his wings one more time, but this time the blade left a pure white afterimage of light energy on the target and it burnt into the armor like acid, degrading it's structure.

He hit the ground in front of the other demon and readied an eliminate scanner as quickly as possible, only needing a few seconds to prepare. Project Dark Angel absorbed the light energy with indifference and then stuck Clive in the chest with the flat part of his wing, forcing the swordsman off the staircase and making the eliminate scanner fizzle into nothing but a few small waves of pointless force. Clive groaned in pain and expected to hit the cobbled floor hard, but instead, he was smashed into a cold stone wall, making a slight indentation of himself in the natural foundation. Fragmented pieces of the underground ruin fell around him in small chunks from the impact, the dream world had broken down into the true reality now that the human part of Ravendor was dead. Now he was back in the real world, the world that he was used to existing in.

However, so was Project Dark Angel.

A being that had only been comprised of negative thoughts was standing in front of him, having stolen Ravendor's physical form for himself. He stretched a little, getting used to his new body outside of the dream world, and then looked around him. Kaitlyn and Catherine were nearby and within his sight, and also the broken golem Diablo continued to loom above them, a spark or two every so often flickering into existence and then fading again. The place was just as they had left it, a decrepit mausoleum. Feeling the muscles in his body ache from forcing them to function, Clive dislodged himself from the cracks in the wall and stood up again, panting a little. "…For the sake of all the Hell you have put my brother through," He announced steadily and doggedly, "I am going to destroy you, Project Dark Angel. I will not let you destroy the human race or anybody else."

**__**

"Hah, so you are going to destroy me?" Smirked the winged demon, flaring his wings and smiling in an infuriatingly smug manner. **_"Will that satisfy your pathetic little ego, to kill the only other one of your race that exists, Demon of Light? The humans deserve their fate. They have diseased this planet and will die in penance!" _**Slowly, he raised his hand once more and dark electricity crackled to life from within it, arching and leaping around like a mini storm. **_"I have no soul. I feel nothing. Join your brother in the midst of eternal despair!"_**

"…That's a lie and you know it."

Something buried deep inside Clive's body suddenly snapped under the pressure of the moment, forged from the accumulated memory of Boomerang, the raw primal anger of the lycanthrope, and the inner powers brought forth from the strain and pressure of a human soul. Power that was far beyond anything Clive could have ever described or dreamed of flooded through his system like water dousing a fire, the mediums he was equipped with crying out in the rush of energy and also contributing to it, forcing all of their powers into one. A pure white aura enveloped Clive's body and the swordsman screamed, he had reached his absolute limit. Kuronegaiken's cold blue blade burst into an intense warmth, the blade pulsing with accumulated power. No longer it's blue colour, it was as pure as the purest shade of white.

Gradually becoming accustomed to the crude power flowing through his veins, Clive's psyche attained just enough control to give him conscious command once more. He gritted his teeth. "We were both human once, and I know that that human part of us can _never_ die. You are still in there, somewhere, Ravendor. I will not give you up for dead." Project Dark Angel shrugged, sighing a little in exasperation. His blank green eyes showed absolutely no change whatsoever.

Then, stepping forward, he attacked.

xxx

It was dark within it's broken shell, cold and lonesome, without any backup supply to give it energy. Diablo's vital signs were minimal but most definitely there, like a very, _very_ faint heartbeat. It's consciousness was weak and frightened, existing on the very border of it's CPU and trembling, the AI unable to remember what had happened to it, or why it was in shocking, agonizing pain. Like a small child, it hid itself deeply in it's own mind, trying to find it's comfortable slumber amidst a haze of suffering. It failed, remaining alert and alive. Diablo twitched, sparks crackling as electricity was pumped through wires and cables that were already severed, bleeding it's source of power into the earth. Wondering why, over and over again, Diablo's AI accessed it's recent log flies for any commands given to it, eager for answers. Scanning them, the golem activated them on the vocal up-link that had miraculously not been damaged.

__

"Diablo… this is Ravendor, can you hear me?"

"Upgrade upcoming command to priority one. Execute on risk of all other priorities. Understand?"

It sounded like it's last master, it's most recent master. Diablo recognised the sound, but pried even further into it's memory banks, seeking the object of the command. It had a very basic curiosity built into it, so it parted more numerical records from others, translating the indecipherable binary into understandable english. It did not consciously remember any of this, but records never lied. The translation didn't come up so well this time, and some words were jumbled and a little difficult to make out. Diablo tried it's best anyway, the command coming up on one of the only screens left that were not cracked or broken.

__

"Eliminate target on sight! Allow reconfiguration of Human Law #01: 'Do not harm humans.' Override! Target…"

It was here that the message began to break up a little.

__

"Target In--vidua-: Cl--e Winslett! Lock-on to aura of target! Scan and remain locked on until the target is silent!"

Diablo went over this order several times in it's processing unit, degrading the structure of the component and making it difficult to discern the meaning of the command. The golem was just too broken to work properly anymore. But, it knew only one thing that it had to do. It was built to obey it's master's command. Though it's master was no longer there, it still had an order to carry out. Destroy Winslett.

Sending out invisible search waves which bounced off all the nooks and crannies in the ruin, like a sonar system, Diablo located two things that went underneath the heading of 'Winslett'. One was a male, of near middle age, while the other was a girl of a particularly young age. Running an aura scan on the male's spirit using the memory from it's master left imprinted in it's data banks, Diablo found an error in it's calculations. The aura it was sensing was different to the aura blueprint that it already had. It was far too powerful. Therefore, it's enemy was not the male target.

Scanning the secondary target, Diablo sensed a 58 match to the original target's DNA. That was good enough for the machine.

****

"Destroy." Groaned the giant using it's vocal synthesizers, **"Destroy Kaitlyn Winslett."**


	83. Living, Loving, And Fighting

Clive almost lost his life on the very first strike. He deflected the attack with his sword readily, pushing Project Dark Angel's wing away, but forgot about the other demon's extra abilities, and felt a bolt of electricity streak through his nervous system, fraying him on the inside. The attack got one or two seconds of open field to work their powers before Clive realised the damage and broke the contact by pushing forward with the blade, forcing his opponent away. It was far more difficult for Clive to keep himself unharmed this time, the strengths of his enemy seeming to have doubled or even tripled after their last duel. Letting go of his shreds of self control for the duration of the battle, Clive roared out in aggression and charged the winged demon, making Project Dark Angel anticipate an attack when he unexpectedly sidestepped and entered a weak point in the other demon's defense.

The range of Project Dark Angel's vision was impaired by both his black wings, making it difficult for him to see what was immediately present on either sides of his body. Clive managed to get in that space, and, disregarding his safety and ignoring the knowledge of how much it would hurt, he grabbed Project Dark Angel's left wing and bent it back in a modified arm-lock, using the other demon's sudden vulnerability to slam him, face-first, into the wall. The swordsman held in a breath and tried to ignore the jagged feathers biting into his arm and chest, drawing blood as the winged demon tried to cut himself free. Clive now had his opponent up against the wall like a police officer would have their prisoner, if he could just muster up the strength, he could try and dislocate the wing joint which would probably put Project Dark Angel down for the count. Tightening his hold, he applied as much pressure as he possibly could, trails of blood from the small wounds on his arm dripping down his coat sleeve.

Hearing a loud gory crack, Clive automatically let go. Project Dark Angel didn't react to the pain, it made Clive think that what he had said was true; he didn't feel pain at all, neither mental nor physical. The feathered limb went dead and hung lifeless at the other demon's side, while likewise, Project Dark Angel went totally silent. Nursing his cut-up arm, Clive moved away, gripping Kuronegaiken uncertainly. Slowly, the feathers changed from their metal state back into their normal state, and the other demon fell to his knees, leaning against the wall. The injured wing was twitching spasmodically, and Clive stepped forward hesitantly, unsure of his intentions.

Then he realised that it was a trap, though it was far too late. Something stabbed him in the ribs with the precision of a syringe and injected a copious amount of lethal poison into his body. Grunting, Clive yanked the barbed tail out of his side and leant over from the small amount of pain, smiling a little. "…Nice try," He said with a slight rasp in his voice, "By my immune system is not like that of humans. Once I purge a venom from my body, it can never harm me again. Just like the chicken pox." He said. Project Dark Angel seemed to flinch a little from Clive's words, but then the swordsman heard a quiet noise that was almost like a suppressed growl. Suddenly, the winged demon sprung up and launched himself at Clive like a rabid monster, slashing at him with his deadly claws while electricity crackled and struck him from the air.

Nearby, Kaitlyn was sitting by herself on the floor, slightly half-sprawled, because everything happening around her so fast was making her tired and dizzy. She usually didn't like to go to bed and preferred to stay up wither her parents, but this time she would have welcomed a chance to sleep for a long while. Her mind was only half aware of this desire, however, because it was more strongly concentrated at the metal object that hung from a tarnished chain, spread across both her hands. Waveringly, Kaitlyn gathered the entirety of the necklace in her hand and touched the cross charm with her index finger lightly, then pressed down a little bit, trying to smudge the rusty blight away. Inside, there was warmth, but it was wrapped up by the blight in a cold cocoon, making it ugly and lifeless. Kaitlyn wanted to see it shiny and warm again. _I'm seeing this thing for the first time, but it doesn't seem like the first time…_ The little girl sniffed and rubbed at her eyes, picking up something terribly sad from the item. _Why… does it make me cry? How come I've seen this before…?_

The little girl heard a loud slicing sound coupled with the sound of metal clashing against metal and she looked up towards the noise, watching the two demons exchange blows in a way that made the battle seem almost like some kind of deadly dance. Long gashes in the walls and floor came from the trail that Kuronegaiken left behind, cutting through rock and stone like hot butter. Clive didn't seem to notice the damage he was doing to the world around him and continued his onslaught, each slice that was directed at Project Dark Angel being deflected by the protective dark armor covering the back of the winged demon's hand and forearm. Clive was slowly pushing his enemy away with each strike, unknowingly letting a sadistic smile of pleasure grace his lips. He was honestly enjoying the bloodlust that was etching it's way into each fluid movement of his sword-arm.

Catherine stumbled into the area, coming out from her hiding place behind a large pile of rocks. With her, Gungnir was grasped between her hands, the weapon was dented and bent, generally looking the worse for wear. Leaning against one of the larger rocks for a few seconds, the ex-drifter looked over the rest of the area and spotted Kaitlyn sitting alone and by herself, mesmerized by something in her hands. Letting out a small gasp, the woman ran over to her daughter and fell to her knees, pulling the small child into her arms. Kaitlyn looked disoriented, but hugged her back. With her little arms around her mother, the girl didn't see the silver cross silently shed a few flakes of the blight, a tiny shimmer of silver underneath the rust appearing in the darkness.

Project Dark Angel struck Clive bluntly in the chest and the metal demon went down heavily with a breathy moan, landing on his side. He could feel that that attack would probably leave him a nasty bruise, and he tasted his own blood in the back of his throat. Then, Project Dark Angel stepped away and played his trump card with a self-gratified flourish and smirk. Standing tall, he clenched his teeth and recoiled from some kind of sudden inner pain, trembling a little. The demon let out a horrendous roar as his dislocated wing unexpectedly snapped back into it's proper position and repaired itself, regenerating at a phenomenal speed. Upon doing so, Project Dark Angel crouched down a little and coiled his legs, snapping his wings open like an angry bird in display. Then, he sprung up and took flight, disappearing into the shadows above them.

Clive tried to stand up again, but doubled over and clutched at his stomach, rolling over and lying on his back, taking in ragged breaths. After a second or two of recuperation, he used Kuronegaiken to lever himself to his feet and he wiped his brow, looking uncertainly up into the air above him. Even with his very acute vision, he could not see where his opponent had flown to. Now he was like a sitting duck, defenseless. There was nothing he could do about it. His mediums felt his pain and tried to replenish his lost energy with some of their own, which made Clive feel a tiny bit better, but the swordsman was running out of steam to continue, even the ambrosia that had been present in the antidote given to him was no longer effective.

A horrible sensation hit Catherine's mind as she saw her husband try and discern Project Dark Angel's current location. It was a brief jolt of déjà vu that sent her back to the dream she had had only the night before, a prophetic dream of Clive's downfall. This was the same scenario that she had seen before. The wolf had fallen, injured, while the raven had flown away. If this part of her dream was true, then Clive was destined to die. _No!_ Catherine cried out fervently in her mind, letting go of Kaitlyn gently and getting to her feet, picking up the ARM that she had placed by her side. _I will not let that dream come true! I was a spectator in that nightmare, but not this time! I am the Aegis, it is my duty to protect!_

Without any noise at all except for a slight rushing of wind, Project Dark Angel fell out of the darkness like a night owl descending on it's prey, his wings once more like rigid lethal blades. He was going to land in such a way that Clive would be sliced cleanly in two, demon body or not. Clive looked up and his body seemed to become paralyzed by what he saw, caught like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Carefully, he untangled his frozen nerves and raised his sword just a little, unsure if it would block the attack or not, but…

When Project Dark Angel landed and lashed out with an inhuman amount of precision, he did not hear the sound of meat being sliced like he had expected, but instead the loud grating clang of refined dragon fossils slamming up against thin metal blades. He had extended his arm at the same time as his wing, and now, he lowered it a little, narrowing his dull lifeless eyes. Clive, the strength leaving his body for a while, had fallen over from exhaustion and was lying on his side, putting most of his energy into breathing. The only defense he had left was Catherine, standing over Clive's body, her arms struggling to keep Gungnir up and continue to block the winged demon's attack. She was not very strong, but force of will alone allowed her to keep the demon's attack from being executed. "I am the… Aegis!" She proclaimed through heavy breaths, straining. "I swore to protect!"

**__**

"Yes, I recall." Said the demon, battling to overcome Catherine's intrusion. She was putting up a very good fight, for a human. **_"I was there at the time when you swore that oath. However, did you not also swear to protect me as well?"_**

"I swore to protect my friends and family." Catherine argued. "You used to come underneath that heading, but not anymore. I will not allow you to hurt my husband, you shall have to go through me first! Can you do that, Ravendor, after all that has happened?" Her arms felt like they were turning into jelly, but after a few moments of contemplation, Project Dark Angel stopped pushing against Catherine's arm and lowered the limb as well, allowing the woman the chance to rest. Letting out a small breath, she dropped her arms and rested the butt of the Gungnir against the ground, her hands around the end of the barrel. Defiantly, she refused to move.

The demon laughed. **_"It is true that Ravendor would have been unable to harm you in any such way, but you seem to forget, Catherine, that I am not that frightened little fool anymore. I couldn't care less whether you lived or died. Now, woman, _**get out of my way**." **She shook her head and stood firmly, her mouth set in a thin little line. Her soft grey eyes were now like reinforced steel. It seemed to be that not even a mountain could move her now, let alone one solitary demon. Slowly, she shook her head, saying no. Project Dark Angel sighed and then shrugged, absently scratching at one of the tattoos on the side of his face.

**__**

"Very well, then." He said after a while, coming to a decision. **_"I warned you. Take this!"_** Catherine had all the breath knocked out of her lungs as she was struck in the side with the flat part of the demon's wing, pushing her away. She was thrown violently into the wall and the impact sent a shock wave of pain through her body, the Gungnir ARM thrust from her hand and skidding to a halt a little ways away from her, out of her reach. Catherine slid down to her knees and slumped onto her side, out of the action. The Aegis could protect Clive no longer.

Kaitlyn was watching this with morbid fascination, her hands clasped around the piece of lackluster silver jewelry. Unknowingly, even to herself, she had slipped the chain over her head and the cross was now resting on her front, warmed by her hands. Had she known it, she would have been enthralled by the scene, but the charm was shedding flakes of rust like crazy, laying bare the true beauty of the item. Kaitlyn felt like a different person while she was wearing it, though she was too wrapped up in the fight in front of her to notice anything more, even when the Gungnir skidded by her and came to rest no more than a few feet away. All she wanted was for this to stop.

Project Dark Angel walked over to Clive's prone body and kicked him sharply in the ribs, sneering. **_"Is this the limit of your abilities, Demon of Light?" _**He demanded angrily, **_"Is this all the human race wishes to offer me as it's last defense? How disgusting. Get back up and fight me, Winslett, so that I may cut you down." _**The winged demon got a terrible thought into his head and then he smiled. **_"If you do not get up, Clive, then I will take out my frustration on Catherine or Kaitlyn, how does that sound to you?"_**

"…If you…do so much as… touch them… I will… kill you…" Flinching as his muscles proclaimed loudly to the motion, Clive carefully got to his feet and forced back an impulse to become violently ill, using all of his willpower to get back into a correct sword stance. He was smeared with blood and dirt, beaten bloody, but he was still able to stand up and ask for more. Rushing forward again, the battle began anew. However, it did not last long. Only a few missed blows and dodges after his recovery, Clive made his last and most fatal mistake.

Clive winced as he accidentally showed his back to his enemy and Project Dark Angel stepped forward, trying to grab the swordsman in a headlock and then treading on the end of the metal demon's tail. The sharp stab of pain shot through Clive's spine and he felt all of his nerves comply to an in-built command and fall dead, forcing him to lose feeling and control of his body. He took in a quick inhalation of breath as a reflex action and his body crumpled, his strength draining away. Project Dark Angel took his chance as Clive fell, finding this a supreme opportunity to penetrate the swordsman's defense. The winged demon caught Clive before he hit the ground, straightening the limp demon up and holding his loaded Peacemaker ARM to the side of Clive's head. Now it was Clive who had been taken hostage, and was in the most danger of all. Dropping Kuronegaiken from his slack fingers, he was powerless.

Triumphantly, Project Dark Angel bit his claws deeply into the flesh of Clive's shoulder to hold him up, making the swordsman cringe slightly in suffering. He could feel the cold metal of the ARM pressing against his temple and gritted his teeth, trying to pull himself away. Cursing his body, he simply could not move. **_"So finally it comes to this."_** Announced the dark-haired demon with delight, digging his claws in just a little bit more to make Clive groan in pain. **_"It is too bad Ravendor is not here to witness this, he would have enjoyed it." _**He said. **_"No matter. Now it is time for you to die. Perhaps the gods will be lenient on your soul, fellow demon."_**

Catherine achingly climbed to her feet, unsteadily standing up straight. That rock wall was hard. She was nowhere near as resilient as she used to be, and that attack had really hurt her badly. She had no idea how Clive had managed to stand it. Limping, she made her way over to Project Dark Angel, tears in her eyes. Overwhelmed, she stood there, at a loss for what to do. It had all gone wrong, whatever she had managed to prophesize, no matter what, she couldn't change the outcome of the duel. "Clive…" She whispered woefully, transfixed by the unfolding scene, "Honey… I…"

Project Dark Angel paused for a moment as he felt something soft brush up against his ankle, and he looked down, stepping an inch or so back. **_"A tail?"_** He asked aloud, then smiled, making his own conclusion. **_"I always knew that you were _**some **kind of mongrel, Winslett. Huh. Bad dog!" **Smirking wickedly, he brought the heel of his boot down as hard as he possibly could onto the tip of Clive's tail. The metal demon cried out hoarsely and recoiled, before sagging pitifully back against the other demon's body, shaking a little. His enemy had found his most vulnerable spot. Clive cursed his lycanthrope now, like he never had before. The winged demon applied pressure around Clive's neck and he had to struggle to breathe, turning around to allow Catherine a perfect view of her husband's execution. **_"I think it is about time I finally put this mongrel to sleep for good, don't you agree, Catherine? Say farewell." _** He released the safety catch on his ARM, now all there was left was for him to pull the trigger.

Weakly, Clive's hand came up to feebly grapple at his opponent's wrist, the one that was holding him up, but he no longer had the ability to pry himself free. Even with all his power, his memory and birthright, he still could not defeat the demons of his past. He was still shackled down with the rusted chains of the past, just like Ravendor had been. Well, at least, and Clive could find solace in this one unmistakable fact, at least he had gotten a chance to see Catherine's face, one last time. He had tried his best, he could die without regret. Catherine's heart seized up when Clive sadly looked over to her from his confines, his dark mahogany eyes seemed to say one last word. Goodbye.

The sound of a loud gunshot echoed in the cavernous ruin, and then there was silence.

Clive fell forward like a sack of meat, released from Project Dark Angel's evil clutches. Catherine screamed in horror and rushed forward to try and catch her husband before he hit the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had trouble holding him, but she managed to catch him, grabbing the green-haired man in her arms while sobbing hysterically. Clive had his eyes squeezed shut in expectance of his death sentence, his body slightly tense in gruesome anticipation. However, he did not die. He was still alive, and whole. The ARM had not been fired at him, it had been fired at somebody else, very close nearby. Opening his eyes, the swordsman struggled to control and awaken his dead nerves, turning over slightly in the direction of the gunshot noise. It had not sounded like the small crack of a pistol ARM, but the loud echo of a rifle without a silencer, ambient and resonant.

The winged demon fell to one knee, gasping for breath. Shakily, he reached his hand up and carefully touched the left side of his front, at the area where his heart tried to beat. Dark blood was pouring out of an exit wound in his chest, cleanly executed without any bullet shrapnel whatsoever. It had been a perfect bull's eye hit. Somebody had shot him in the back. Jolted by the unexpected action, something amazing happened. Life had returned to the demon's dull and blank eyes, and he was Ravendor Begucci once more. Both demons and the ex-drifter glanced behind him to the source of the attack, in utter confusion.

Kaitlyn was standing there, battling to hold up the heavy Gungnir ARM in her small little hands, the end of the barrel smoking from recent fire.


	84. La Raison D'etre

Kaitlyn looked angry. Clive admitted to himself that he had never seen her daughter so upset before. Her eyes were like her mother's, as tough as steel, and her little hands were gripping the heavy weight of the weapon as tightly as she could. She looked very close to tears though, and finally, she dropped the gun, the Gungnir falling to the side with a rattling clatter. "I'm sorry Uncle Ravendor," She said, "But I don't want my Daddy to be hurt anymore. He's been hurt enough." Letting her hands fall to her sides, smelling a little of gunpowder, Kaitlyn sunk to her knees and started to cry.

Clive was watching Ravendor while still in the arms of his wife, the feeling gradually returning to all his deadened nerves. Catherine was being his physical support. As for Ravendor, the winged demon slowly removed his hand from the area of his gunshot wound. There was blood on his hands, his own. He was now incredibly confused, for all he had seen and known for quite some time was just an endless expanse of nothingness for an unending period of time. He had been so certain that he was silenced for good. It was the ending that he had wanted, but then, somebody had called him back. Ravendor started to breathe again, nearly overwhelmed by the sensation of pain in his chest. Leaning into the rocky wall, he concentrated on being alive.

__

I… came back. Somebody summoned me back. Who…? He noticed the girl with the gun beside her, the barrel still smoking a little. _Kaitlyn, I suppose. She brought me back. Why? Ugh… _Ravendor started to cough a little, his lungs filling up with blood from a ruptured internal wound. It was becoming difficult to breathe. He could feel his healing factor begin to patch up the injury, but for the gunshot wound, nothing could be done. The heart was the only part of a demon that could not be regenerated, and it was their only definite weak spot.

__

I have been defeated. My ambition is dead. He thought to himself. _But Winslett, but Clive has refrained from destroying me outright. Why? I know he has more power than what he has displayed, I saw it myself from within Diablo. Why didn't he decide to kill me…?_

The winged demon didn't resist when Clive stood up from out of Catherine's arms and took the dark-haired man's right arm, draping it across his shoulder and hauling Ravendor to his feet, because he couldn't stand up very well under his own power at the moment. Clive was feeling stronger than before, but it was still a struggle for him nonetheless. Adjusting his glasses with his free hand, he smiled wearily. "It is over. Let's find Virginia and the others and leave. I have decided that Ravendor will be coming with us. He is many things but he is still my brother. Catherine, Kaitlyn, do you mind?" Catherine also got up and shook her head, she didn't mind, as long as they were able to get out of harm's way. Ravendor was silent, not objecting, or perhaps, unable to object. He looked to be only semi-conscious, staring listlessly at the ground.

Kaitlyn stood up and managed to pick up the Gungnir by herself, having to heavily reinforce it with the ground, holding it like it was a walking stick. She felt comfortable to be holding it, and for the first time, she grasped the concept of what she had just accomplished. She had shot an ARM without any assistance from anyone, and not only that, she had executed a lock-on technique at the same time. It made her feel incredibly proud, though her heart felt sad and guilty at the result of her actions. She didn't want to shoot him, but she _had_ to, to save her father's life. "Let's go home." Clive said, taking a few steps while dragging the bandit-leader as he moved.

Ravendor walked with him, but like in his childhood with all the people who had guided him against his will, he just allowed himself to be led like he had no free will of his own. "Home…" He echoed, morosely and quietly. He didn't even think that he _had_ a home, or anything remotely resembling that idea. He couldn't even _remember_ the last time he had had a place to call home. Ravendor closed his eyes. Demons weren't supposed to have homes, why on earth did Clive entertain such a preposterous notion? Ravendor felt that he could only do two things with his life now, if he could call it a life. Destroy, or die. But still, it would be really nice, and he thought of this only briefly, if there could be something else, something that he didn't deserve. Something called happiness.

"Clive, do you… pity me?" Ravendor asked weakly, suddenly, from out of nowhere.

Pausing, Clive stopped to think for a few seconds, watching Catherine dust traces of dirt from the front of her dress. Her face was a little smudged with blood, but somehow, it made her look all the more attractive to him. However, Clive could also remember a time when she had been Ravendor's girlfriend instead of his wife, though that time seemed to be so long ago. Time changed everybody. "No. I do not." Clive said at last, convinced of his opinion. "I can only pity a lesser man or creature, and Ravendor, I have always considered you my equal, even now. Bad things can happen to good people. Why should I pity you?" Clive sighed. "I couldn't kill you either. I am so sick and tired of taking the lives of others, I just couldn't commit that same crime again."

"Then you are a fool." Replied the other demon, blood still leaking from the gunshot wound in his chest. Clive just shrugged the shoulder that wasn't being leaned on and smiled. He would rather be a fool than a murderer, that was for sure. He faintly picked up the sound of rocks moving nearby, but focussed his concentration on the sword, lying on the ground in front of him. Raising his free hand over the weapon, he beckoned to it. Completely unsure as to why he expected something to happen, it surprisingly did. Kuronegaiken leapt from the ground into Clive's welcoming hand, reuniting with it's master. It pulsed warmly for a few seconds, then went quiet.

But that quiet did not last for long. The sword all of a sudden flared it's handle with a red-hot fire, almost scalding Clive's skin. The swordsman yelped and almost dropped it again, but then after a brief moment, almost as soon as it had come, it disappeared again. It had been a warning. Kuronegaiken was trying to warn him about something, and if that were true, then Luceid herself sensed that something bad was happening. Grasping his sword even tighter, he heard the rocks move again, louder and more prominently, and this time he noticed it.

Coming from Kaitlyn's direction.

Turning towards his daughter he saw the shadows shift behind her, like a great mass was moving under the cloak of darkness. Here and there, the swordsman caught a glimpse of blood-red armor and he bit his lip, modifying his stance a little so that was allowed him to be able to attack and still support Ravendor at the same time. Kaitlyn herself stood up when she heard the noise, but didn't turn around, watching her father with muted fear. Then, bursting from the shadows around them, a wounded Diablo thundered into view, hunched over the little girl with cables running from it's injured belly, sparking with extensive damage. Heat sizzled off the crimson armor in invisible heat waves, and the beast roared, it's AI pushed to the brink of it's sanity. The damaged cables instantly came to life and waved around like a cluster of riled snakes, hissing arcs of deadly electricity.

And Clive knew that he would have to fight again, but he couldn't do it alone.

"Kaitlyn! Watch out!" He cried, unable to protect her from where he stood. The little girl whirled around and then threw herself backwards as one large cable slammed itself into the ground near her feet, intent on piercing her body like a toothpick through a choice piece of food. She landed on her front and felt the electricity charge the air behind her, hopping up onto her feet as quickly as she could. Clive squeezed Ravendor's wrist, trying to see if the other demon was still conscious. "Ravendor! Can you stand? Can you still fight?"

Ravendor raised his head, a small trail of dark blood trickling from a corner of his mouth. He smiled. "…She'll die if I don't…" He answered, removing his arm from Clive's shoulder and standing under his own power. Limping, he took a few steps away from the swordsman and spread his wings, turning them into tough metal once more. "Tell Catherine… to leave the area…" He added, looking sideways at Clive. Catherine heard him anyway. She had wanted to help Kaitlyn herself, her mother's instinct had ordered her to, but without the Gungnir, she could be absolutely no help. Feeling dismayed with a horrible pressure gripping her heart from the knowledge of Kaitlyn being in danger, she nevertheless obediently moved away.

Raising his sword, Clive could hear Ravendor's struggling breath from a few feet away. It had truly been a long time since they had been on the same side. The circumstances here were at the least uncanny, but he didn't have the time to think about such things. He had to save his daughter. Kaitlyn was dodging Diablo's attacks mostly due to her small size and the general inaccuracy of the golem's strikes, the cables slamming into the ground only a short way away from her body. She was running now and safe, but the time would come when she would tire out and then be vulnerable. "Ravendor… Do you remember the Eastern Highlands train hijacking and how we beat those bounty hunters?" Clive asked.

"Of course." Ravendor replied, crossing his taloned hands out in front of his body at the wrists, displaying the sharp claws. He was leaning over a little, trying to ignore the bullet wound. He suppressed a cough. "Could I ever forget? Very well, then… I shall take the left…"

"…And I shall take the right." Clive agreed, finishing off his sentence and nodding. "Also, I will launch an offensive assault while you take the defensive. I am sure that you can defend most attacks with those wings of yours, right Ravendor? Then, when Kaitlyn is secured, we will both attack at the same time, destroying the target. Do you understand?"

Ravendor snorted, amused. "You are still… the cunning strategist, I see. Diablo's armor is… weakest underneath the arms… and around the neck. The live cables will strike first… while the body remains weak and immobile. Avoid the cables and… attack the body. I will… protect Kaitlyn…" This was the same plan explained in a slightly different manner. It didn't matter, as long as it worked. Both demons took a second to prepare, letting their auras fall in sync with each other, and then they charged at exactly the same time, eyes narrowed in concentration.

The swordsman broke into a run which was cut short as a cable intercepted him, making the metal demon get down and roll to the side, swinging his sword as the roll ended and managing to slash the long insulated wiring in half. The cable fell to the ground and writhed like a dying worm, until the power failed and it became just an ordinary piece of machinery once more. Diablo was just sitting there as the cables did all the work, spilling from it's gut like evil animated lengths of intestine. Another cable clipped Clive in the back of the head and it stung badly, knocking the demon's glasses off his nose. Clive reached for them and didn't notice the rubber casing peel off the wiring, the thick cable separating it's wires like a cobra bearing it's fangs. Lunging for him, it could easily tear a hole in his chest.

Clive felt a quick rush of air and the intruding cable dropped with an anticlimactic thump, also slashed cleanly and with precision. Ravendor retracted his wing and glared at the other demon, holding one hand, palm out over the cable and then used a concentrated amount of dark thunder to turn the hindrance into dust. "You idiot!" He exclaimed. "I said attack the body, not the cables! Dammit!" He grabbed onto another cable that had tried to strike him in the side and pulled fiercely on it, ripping it from it's base. Tossing it to the side, he didn't give Clive a second glance and ran to find Kaitlyn.

Jumping to his feet, Clive put his glasses back on and sprinted towards the body of the golem, bringing his arms back in order to execute an advanced sword technique. This was going to make Diablo wish that it had never even been created. Power began to collect in Kuronegaiken's blade, making it glow a pure white. Clive gritted his teeth, feeling his own aura supplement the energy and making it even more powerful. He hadn't performed this attack in eons, could he still do it? He had to find out. Clive could feel the clear heat waves emanating from the giant creation, and it was then that he chose to strike.

"Evil Sword Lucei-"

Kaitlyn screamed.

This made the metal demon cancel the attack immediately, whirling around towards the source of the cry. Kaitlyn was on the ground, lying on her front with her hands trying to grasp anything solid nearby, one small cable wrapped around her foot and trying to drag her in for the kill. Grabbing a rock that fit the shape of her hand, Kaitlyn picked it up and slammed it against the wiring around her foot, again and again, hoping that it would be enough to free her. Managing to scuff the rubber insulation off, the rock was not strong enough to do anything more. Ravendor appeared and picked up the child, cutting Kaitlyn loose with the flick of a wing. The little girl wrenched the rest of the wiring off and was thrown out of Ravendor's arms as a new cable whipped him in the back, knocking the dark-haired man down.

Becoming the cavalry, Clive ran to them and dispatched the offending intruders with a small amount of difficulty, having to almost jump into the air to reach them. Contact with the wiring caused some electricity to run through the blade and injure him slightly, though Clive was too busy to worry or care about it. Kneeling, he gathered his daughter into his arms, who was crying hysterically. "It is okay, Kaitlyn." He reassured her. "It is okay." Ravendor pushed himself up with his arms and groaned a little, his back aching from the previous strike. Rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand, he saw Clive with Kaitlyn, the swordsman's back towards the unruly golem.

__

Is he **insane**?! He is defenseless! Forcing himself to stand, Ravendor looked towards the crimson monster, the runes upon his body flaring as he became alarmed. At least ten cables were racing towards both Winslett's bodies, screeching with raw primal power. It was enough to kill them both. Ravendor saw this well. _Even if Clive is hit, the wiring will pass through his body and strike Kaitlyn too, and they will **both **die!_

I failed to save Kaitlyn once before, but now… not this time…

****

I am supposed to be the victim. Not her…

I will not let it happen all over again…

I would rather be victimized than to watch a child die. They say that I have no choice or free will in my sacrifice, but this **is** my choice, and this is my will.

I accept it.

The decision is mine.

Clive heard a horrible sound of meat being pierced by metal. Again he felt the rushing of wind, indicating motion, but when he stood and turned around, his view was blocked by Ravendor's protective metal wings. The bandit-leader was standing in front of Clive and Kaitlyn, both his arms and his wings spread out to impede any assaults against them. He was defending them. However, a black stain was spreading along the dark-haired man's white coat, spilt blood, because the metallic wires had struck his body and had pierced him right though. There, the wires remained, embedded into the holes they had made in his body. Ravendor's green eyes were neutral, like they weren't even registering the pain. Clive was shocked. Ravendor smiled and closed his eyes.

"…I have always said… that if I can save at least _one_ life on… this miserable planet… Then my existence here might not be… so worthless after all…" Reaching his taloned hand up, he grasped the thickest cable he could find, buried in his stomach. It hurt _so_ much, but it was not going to hurt for much longer. He took solace in this fact. "I have… chosen that life… and it is… my reason for existing… Watch me destroy Diablo… in only one blow…"

Pressing down on the thick cable as much as he could, Ravendor's claws dug into the live wiring and the demon screamed, releasing the last restraints of his mind. Dark electricity gathered in his hands at a phenomenal rate, an explosive rate, and through the connection, it was injected directly into Diablo's nervous system. A black aura encircled the dark-haired man, built with arcs and flashes of shadowy energy, and Clive had to sink to his feet, protecting Kaitlyn with his body. Diablo roared out in agony as all it's fuses blew inside it's metal hull, experiencing a power surge that took all of it's computers in it's lethal clutches and wiped them clean. This killed it's AI in an instant, which was exactly what Ravendor had planned. Finally, with his energy spent, Ravendor raised one wing and cut the wires connecting him to Diablo's body, severing the connection.

Without being held up by any kind of intelligence anymore, Diablo fell forward and slammed face-first into the floor, sending shock waves throughout the entire cavern.

A great chasm opened up from the ground underneath them with an ear splitting crack, solid earth splintering into small shards as great fragments of it fell into a newborn, yawning abyss. The entire cavern rattled under the pressure of the disruption and Clive held his daughter protectively, jumping aside as a large part of the roof came crashing down right next to them. Ravendor had taken flight and had moved backwards, away from the commotion, just touching down away from the affected area. Clive felt his body tense when the floor beneath his feet kind of shifted away from his boots, and then seemed to move underneath his feet. A terrifying thought hit his brain. The chasm was going to widen up right below him.

His heart going a mile a minute, Clive shot a glance towards the safest place nearby and made a break for it, sprinting as hard and as fast as his tired legs could possibly go. His breath caught in his throat as he nearly slipped on a stone and stumbled, but he recovered himself and kept running, the gigantic crack in the floor devouring all the earth behind him as he fled. Kaitlyn whimpered and hugged her father as tightly as possible while squeezing her eyes shut, trying to pretend that none of this was happening. Letting out a horrendous bellow, Diablo's body tipped over and sunk sideways, even further into the ravine, crimson red armor disappearing forever into the shadows, it's AI completely silenced. Only a few sparking cables remained, severed from the giant's metal body.

Clive experienced a beauteous ray of hope when solid land was only a few footsteps away, his heart lightening with every passing second, until his next step was an unfortunate one and he stepped onto nothing but air, the ground in front of him falling away before he had a chance to escape, only a foot or two away from freedom. Crying out in dismay, Clive threw his free arm out and grabbed frantically at anything that he could get a hold on, a ledge, or a jutting piece of rock, or anything…

Something snagged his wrist and Clive's downward trip was suddenly halted, the metal demon getting the wind knocked out of his lungs as gravity made him roughly swing into the substantial wall that composed one of the sides of the chasm. Thumping against it, Clive made sure to absorb the brunt of the hit with his shoulder, protecting Kaitlyn from any injury. When he finally stopped moving and became still, he let out a sigh of deep relief, looking up to see what had saved him from his fall. A small drop of blood hit him on the cheek and Clive tensed again, the liquid sliding down his face. Ravendor was leaning over the precipice as far as possible without his balance becoming unstable, grasping Clive's wrist with a grip like iron. He was bleeding massively from huge wounds in his body where Diablo's charged cables had torn through him like tissue paper. Some of them still sparked slightly in semi-activity, though severed from it's original host.

Ravendor fought to keep up his strength. "Kaitlyn!" He cried, worried. "Kaitlyn, are you alright?! Can you hear me?!" Straining, the dark-haired demon tried his best to haul both Winsletts out of the abyss, the muscles in his arms groaning from the exertion. In his weakened state, he just wasn't strong enough to pull them up by himself. Some pebbles rolled underneath the winged demon's body and forced him even closer to the edge, fighting to keep himself there, as well as the others. Clive tightened his own hold on the other demon's armor-plated hand and tried to ignore the sensation of his feet dangling probably hundreds of feet above any known floor, while he was unsure if he would drop to his doom or not.

Kaitlyn had the strength to look up, meeting Ravendor's panic-stricken eyes. They didn't look quite so evil anymore. Clinging to her father like a lifeline, or like an inner tube in the middle of a raging ocean, she answered. "I'm okay!" The little girl hollered in a louder voice than what she had originally thought she could muster. "It's scary in here, but I'm okay! Daddy's okay too, I think!" Clive secretly wondered if Ravendor even _cared_ about that part, but just knowing that Kaitlyn was unharmed was good enough for him. He rose a few measly centimeters as Ravendor tried to pull them both up with only one hand, but the dark-haired man failed and lowered them again, too weak to be properly useful.

"You are too heavy!" Ravendor exclaimed. "I cannot… hold onto you… for much longer…" Even as he said this, his fingers began to slightly slip, both Clive's and his own. The metal demon and the little girl were just too heavy for him to manage alone. Ravendor thought for a moment, then had an idea. "Clive! Is there… is there any way for you to haul Kaitlyn up here that you can see? Any at all?" Clive looked around his immediate line of sight, seeing nothing but rocks and darkness. There was not even a ledge nearby that he could hoist her to. Defeatedly, he looked back up at the other demon and shook his head in negativity, just as he slipped away a little bit more.

Hearing the sound of rolling rocks a short distance away, Ravendor turned his head a little bit to see Catherine emerge over a large rock formation, seeing their predicament and rushing over to them at once, concern in her eyes. As she ran to them, she accidentally ensnared her foot underneath one of the long cables where the end was buried in Ravendor's body, but she pinwheeled her arms wildly for a few moments and managed to maintain her balance. The cables crackled with electricity at the disturbance. All at once, observing this event, through his haze of pain, Ravendor devised a plan. "Catherine, listen to me!" He was cut short for a second or two, coughing out a small spattering of blood. "You have to… pull the cable out of my body… Use it like a rope! I am not… strong enough… by myself…"

Catherine was shocked. Kneeling a little, she picked up the other end of the cable with a small amount of trouble, because the metal cord was incredibly heavy for what it was. She didn't touch the precise end, because that part was dangerous and conducted raw electricity, but somewhere along the insulated length. Looking down at it, it was still semi-live with dormant power. "I can't pull this out! Doing so might kill you! I cannot do that, Ravendor, I can't! And," She searched for more reasons, "And you might electrocute Clive and Kaitlyn at the same time!"

Clive's cold hands were a little sweaty from the previous few fights, which made it far more difficult for him and Ravendor to hold on. Kaitlyn noticed her father starting to slip and squealed in fright, beginning to cry audibly in fear. From the pocket of her blue dress, the trilobite fossil Ravendor had given her slid out and escaped, falling for an insanely long time, before the quiet sound of the relic smashing and shattering onto distant jagged ledges was heard, the sound hardly making her feel any calmer. She was terrified. Ravendor had had enough. "_Catherine_!" He roared, "If you do not do it now then your daughter is already dead! I will nullify the electricity for you, so _pull it out!_"

Ravendor closed his eyes in concentration. Beginning to tremble a little, the electricity in the cable seemed to fade away, though the dark-haired man winced under the pressure. Now the cable had gone dead, and obeying his command, Catherine bit her lip and pulled with all her might. Like an anchor on a tug-o-war team, she pressed her heels into the ground and used the weight of her body to pull, the cable coming free after a little bit of effort. Ravendor made a noise that sounded like he was suppressing an audible cry of pain, blood now pouring out of a gaping wound in his stomach. Miraculously, he was able to ignore the agony. Not needing anymore commands, the ex-drifter dragged the nearest end, noticing that it was splashed in blood, and threw it over the edge, beside where Clive and Kaitlyn were hanging.

Drops of Ravendor's blood rhythmically landed on Clive as the swordsman hung there between a rock and a hard place, having the fervent desire to wipe them away. The blood felt somewhat unclean. "Honey!" Catherine called from above him, "Let Kaitlyn hold onto the cable and I can pull her out of the chasm! I think I can save her!" Hearing her, Clive was conflicted in his decision. He only had one arm he could use right now, the other was bound by Ravendor, and if he let go of her, he could no longer protect her. He didn't want his daughter to fall to her untimely death, not after finally finding her again. But, Clive knew in his heart that he could trust Catherine, he could trust her with absolutely anything.

"Kaitlyn, listen to me." Clive said quietly, just loud enough for her daughter to hear. He had never spoken with her so solemnly before in his entire life. "I want you to let go of me and cling onto that cable as tightly as possible, okay? Do not let go of it until you see your mother. Be strong, Kaitlyn. Don't be scared." The little girl stopped shivering and suddenly glanced up at her father, her grey eyes somehow suddenly serious. They looked like they were hiding fright, but at the same time, bearing determination. Her little hands loosened themselves from Clive's shirt and coat, and she spoke.

"I'm not scared." She said, and leapt.

The little girl grabbed onto the metallic cable which swung a little on contact and hooked both her arms and legs around it, clinging like a fireman to a pole. Forcing her eyes shut, she awaited rescue and Catherine began to pull her daughter up, bringing in the lengths of cable inches at a time. It seemed that Catherine was still a strong woman, not only mentally, but physically as well. A huge weight fell off Clive's chest when Kaitlyn was at last pulled out of the chasm and sat down on solid ground once more, dazed. Catherine tossed the remainder of the cable into the hole and hugged her daughter, tears escaping her eyes. She was now safe.

His own grip slipped a little bit more and the swordsman immediately remembered his _own_ predicament, that he was still in mortal danger. Actually, now, with the cable gone, there was no way left for him to escape. The only reason he was alive right now was because Ravendor had refused to let him go. _What an ironic role-reversal_… he thought. Looking back up at the other demon, still battling to keep Clive alive, he smiled weakly. "There, Kaitlyn and Catherine are safe." The metal demon stated tiredly. "I suppose that means that my part is complete. You can kill me now, Ravendor. I am finished. All you have to do…" He remembered the trilobite shattering far below him and imagined his bones doing the same. "All you have to do is let me go." Clive sighed. "I won't hold it against you if you decide to let me die. I deserve it in a way, anyway."

Lowering his eyebrows, Ravendor stared at Clive in a deeply appraising way, his jade-green eyes piercing Clive's conquered, though somehow docile mahogany ones. Almost unnoticeably and hardly even felt by the other, Ravendor loosened his hold on Clive just a tiny little bit. They stared at each other for an unknown amount of time. It could have been only a few seconds or a few minutes, but to the two demons, it felt like a few hours. Clive was waiting for his death, expecting it, until all of a sudden Ravendor clenched his hand more tightly around Clive's wrist again and tried to pull him upwards. "You are an enigma, Clive." He said as he pulled, a small smile on his face. "I just cannot understand the way you think."

Clive was thoroughly surprised. "But I," He began, "I mean… you…"

"Shut up and be still, you are making this more difficult than it already is." He warned, slightly annoyed. Without the pressure of having to haul up two people instead of one, Ravendor found it easier to lift Clive out of the chasm with only one hand, though it felt quite painful to do so. He wasn't bleeding as badly, though, but that was only because he was slowly running out of blood to spill. However, he was remarkably good at hiding it to others. Making progress, he managed to pull Clive up enough for the swordsman to make a grab for something outside of the chasm, taking Ravendor's other hand that the bandit leader held out to give Clive a little more stability. Then, with one last pull, Clive was safely out of harm's way.

Both demons carefully got to their feet and Clive ran to the rest of his family, sinking to his knees and grabbing Kaitlyn and Catherine into a greatly-deserved hug. The swordsman had been petrified, he honestly thought that he was going to die. "Thank the Guardians!" He cried out in a way that was far too emotional for the original Clive Winslett, and _definitely_ out-of-character for the deceased Boomerang Flash. Clive was too happy to care. He squeezed both girls tighter, crying happily. "I thought it was all over! Thank the Guardians I was wrong! I have never been so glad to be wrong before!"

Catherine's eyes sparkled with tears. "We made it though this," She sniffed, "I knew we could, as long as we believed in each other. I can't believe… after everything that has happened…" She couldn't finish her sentence, descending into tears. She was also, like her husband, joyously happy, but could only express it with crying. Kaitlyn was crying no matter what, because despite convincing others that she was brave, and she was for her age, she was still only a little girl. Little girls can only take so much strain, and Kaitlyn had hit her limit. Yet, it was strange how she felt so happy and liberated at exactly the same time. It was the euphoria of completing her very first drifter's adventure.

For a few minutes they just enjoyed the renewed pleasure of being in each other's company, a family finally reunited. Kaitlyn was the first to realise something. "Daddy, Mama," She murmured, pulling on her parent's clothing in a childish way, "What about Uncle Ravendor?" She asked, blinking a bit. Clive and Catherine paused, they had forgotten that the dark-haired man was still there. Shooting a glance behind them, Clive and Catherine saw Ravendor watching them silently, his taloned arms loosely crossed over his chest with his wings half-folded, the end of his tail lightly tapping the ground like a cat. His hair was a little bit messed up and had been released from his ponytail a short while ago, but his deep green eyes were still visible from underneath his fringe of dark hair. He was smiling, not sinisterly, but genuinely smiling from a subdued satisfaction. He almost looked happy.

"I suppose this… means that my part… is now complete…" He said with a voice labored with hidden pain, the Winslett family having forgotten about his seemingly fatal wounds. "I am… finished…"

And he keeled over onto his side, immediately going limp like a marionette with all their strings suddenly cut. He was barely breathing, and in his severely weakened state, his healing factor had refused to function in the way it was supposed to. Instead of his regular black demon blood, the blood that was leaking from his body was now slightly bluish in appearance, his body secreting panakeia in a last ditch effort to keep him alive.

And the prophecy that Kaitlyn had whimpered to Dario was coming true.

Ravendor was going to die.


	85. If You Realise The Strength To Break The...

Amidst the thick pile of discarded rubble, packed together like stony sardines, some of the rocks shifted slightly, causing some small pebbles to trickle away with a tiny pattering sound. Like the beginning of an avalanche, some larger and more formidable stones rolled away, revealing what lay underneath the protected surface. A crystalline film with a milky-white colour was spread over the interior of the pile, binding the stones together to protect what lay in it's center. It glittered like zircon, or thick lead-tempered crystal. Tiny jagged peaks had formed between the gaps of the rocks pressing down upon it, but the barrier was strong enough to resist the pressure.

Until, that is, somebody put their clenched fist through the barrier, shattering it like brittle, fragile glass. It did not collapse entirely, just breaking enough to create a sizeable hole in the surface, wide enough for a person to climb through. Gallows withdrew his fist and shook the tension out along with a few little shards of crystal, pulling off the mighty gloves that he had borrowed from Clive after. His knuckles were cut up and bloody underneath, because he had tried to break out of his confinement, at first, bare-handed. It was only after Virginia had pointed out the borrowed tool he was carrying that Gallows had changed his strategy to an easier and far less painful one.

The Maxwell gang had been saved from an almost certain crushing death by Gallows's surprisingly quick thinking and reflexes. The Baskar priest had the shadow if an inkling that it was his inborn connection with the earth that had called him into action, or maybe, the earth itself had told him that it was going to fall. In any case, as soon as the bolt of dark thunder had struck the area above their heads, Gallows found himself anticipating it and he released a distortion arcana at once over his friends and allies, bolstering it's power by extending the reaches of his mind. As soon as the predicted invisible waves of the spell shimmered into existence above them, Gallows strained himself again and cast a magnarize arcana over the distortion arcana, the two spells reacting with one another in an unusual way.

When the distortion arcana spread it's area above the heads of the drifters below it, the magnarize arcana appeared above it and solidified into a tangible form, as it usually did, but this time it acted on the other spell nearby, melting into the shape of the barrier and becoming rigid crystal. The first arcana had been like a mold, while the second was like concrete poured onto an upturned bowl. The result was a physical barrier which simply could not by broken from the outside at all, encasing the Maxwell gang like a bejeweled dome. Gallows winced when the rocks struck the outside of the dome and covered it in a rockslide, trying to concentrate his energy into keeping the barrier active. The others were hurled into unconsciousness when the floor rumbled underneath them, like a violent mini earthquake, tossed into the sides of the dome. Gallows held out for as long as he possibly could, but like the others, had lost consciousness as well.

But now, after a little bit of effort, they were freed. Gallows stuffed the mighty gloves back into the pockets of his pants and poked his head outside the barrier, looking up at first because he was mindful of the idea that a rock could come crashing down onto his head. Things seemed clear, so he stuck his head back in and motioned to the others that it was safe to leave. Virginia and Jet were still inside, as well as Dario, the bandit who had been their enemy only a little while ago. Now there were neither good guys nor bad guys, just victims and killers. Gallows didn't like to dwell on who was who, so he climbed out of the hole by himself and waited for the others to emerge. Jet was badly damaged, though still conscious, but he had to be carried out by the others, unable to stand up for the time being. His right leg had been broken when he was hurled into the wall of the dome a while ago, snapped in an area just below the kneecap. The boy was pale, but allowed Virginia and Gallows to help him out of there, the female drifter taking his arms and the Baskar priest taking his legs. Dario followed timidly after.

The area of the cavern now looked quite different to how the Maxwell gang had seen it before. Great gashes marred the walls and floor of the ruins, deep and running like surgical slashes, ripping into the earth without remorse. They were clean-cut, seeming to have been made with hardly any effort at all. There were dozens of them, scattered all over the place. Virginia and Gallows carefully set Jet down and smelled the slight oily tang of demon blood in the air, dark patches on the floor indicating that enough blood had been spilled to cast such a scent through the air. A little ways off, long severed cables lay around on the ground without any electricity or source of their presence, even the giant crimson-plated golem Diablo appeared to have disappeared into thin air. Most prominent of all, a _huge_ gaping chasm had opened up in the center of the room, near where the cables and Diablo had stood. The entire place looked like one great big battlefield after all the soldiers had either died or gone home.

At the heart of this battlefield, the injured demon was unconscious when Clive managed to pull him to his feet and drag him to a far corner of the room, the green-haired swordsman well aware that they were leaving a dripping trail of black blood behind. Catherine took Kaitlyn's hand and followed them, her head set mournfully down and following the trail of blood rather than her husband and his faint shadow. Stepping over a few strewn cables, Clive halted at a large boulder and leant Ravendor up against that, being careful not to agitate the dark-haired man's injuries. Everything was so quiet, so still, it was now quite difficult for him to believe that he had been fighting for his life and the lives of his family only a few short minutes ago. Now, Clive stood back and sat down a foot or so away, letting out a deep breath. He was tired. He needed this moment to rest.

Kneeling, Catherine pulled out her pocket handkerchief and wiped the blood off Ravendor's cheek, ignoring the horrible runes tattooed unwillingly onto the side of his face. She honestly didn't know what they meant or what they stood for, but she also didn't have any desire to know or find out. Her touch seemed to awaken him from his unconsciousness and she pulled her hand away, unsure. Ravendor slowly opened his eyes but did not raise them, leaning back into the hard surface of the unyielding stone. He was sitting on some of the cables that had yet to be removed from his body, and that made him hurt a little more than he wished himself too. The only good thing he could accredit to this hurt was the knowledge that he was still alive to feel it.

That pain intensified by at least tenfold when something unidentified grabbed his middle and squeezed him tightly, forcing the winged demon to almost cry out softly in pain. He felt a pressure on his chest and noticed that Kaitlyn had grabbed him roughly in a frantic hug, ignoring the fact that he was soaked through with his own spilt blood. Kaitlyn wound her little hand around a fold of Ravendor's previously white coat and tugged on it miserably, sniffling. Ravendor went considerably limp again and Kaitlyn panicked, jumping to the conclusion that he had finally died. "Uncle Ravendor!" She cried, thumping him with her fist as she did so. "Uncle Ravendor! Please wake up! Don't go to sleep! Wake up!"

This motion made him wake up again and he raised his hand to muffle a bloody cough, wincing from the bolt of agony that shot through his nervous system as he did so. However, he was now completely awake. "…Ugh…" He felt a cable spark in his body and he flinched, but then he focussed on the little girl sitting in his lap. For a few short moments, he didn't recognise her. Actually, it was the silver cross that was hanging around her neck that mislead him, and he mistook her for somebody else. "…Kaitlyn?" He asked, confused, but then his mind connected to the present reality and he identified Kaitlyn for who she really was. Ravendor sighed and dropped his hand once more. "… That thing… looks good on you, Kaitlyn. You should keep it." He said.

Kaitlyn shook her head and made a move to remove the chain, yet she stopped halfway in her action. Part of her mind seemed to remember the cross from somewhere else, and was reluctant to part with it again. Kaitlyn dropped her hands and hugged her uncle once more, though Catherine carefully took the girl's shoulder and pulled Kaitlyn away. She now had large smears of blood down her dark blue dress, and biting her lip, she also looked down. "Thank you, Uncle Ravendor." She said politely but sadly. "But Daddy…" Her voice cracked a little with emotion. "But Daddy always says that a gift is worth another gift given… out of the same sen-ti-ments." She had to sound out the last complicated word, and raised her small hands to one of the sides of her head as well, loosening one of her pretty blue ribbons from her hair. She pressed this ribbon into the palm of Ravendor's taloned hand and closed it, because the demon seemed to be loosing feeling in some of his limbs as well and was unable to move. "If you're going to be giving me your favoritest thing, then it's only right if I give you _my_ favoritest thing as well." She reasoned.

Ravendor didn't have the energy left to refuse the gift. Clive, after a few moments of contemplation, stood up and walked over to the weakened demon, Kuronegaiken in his hand. He looked down at him, and likewise, Ravendor looked up. His green eyes looked a little lackluster and drained, but that could be accredited to his physical condition and not the darker, more alarming possibility. Clive raised his sword, but not for the expression of aggression. "You are dying." He observed without needing to look very hard, any fool with half a brain could see that. "I am not a healer, but I think I can help you a little. Please let me help you. Maybe you won't have to die. If we can find a way to supplement your panakeia, if we can do that, then maybe…" He trailed off on this sentence, unsure on how to finish it. Instead, he started a new one and removed one hand from the grip of his sword, a faint aura surrounding it. "I _will_ save you. I know I can. Life Drain… Esoteric… Arcana… Retractio-"

"No!"

The winged demon managed to move, even in his critical condition. Leaning forward and almost climbing to his feet, Ravendor reached out and grabbed Clive's wrist with the hand that wasn't holding onto Kaitlyn's ribbon. Clive froze near the end of his chant, slightly alarmed. Letting go, Ravendor slumped back down against the rock and took some deep breaths, trying to breathe through all the blood coagulating in his lungs. "Listen…" He said at last, softly. "Clive… please… do not go down that road once more. Do not take that path again… I do not… want you… to save me again… You have saved me one too many times…" He shivered a little recoiling from some kind of inner pain that they could not fathom on the outside. "I am grateful… for the thought… but please, I am tired of being saved from death… over and over… and over…"

Clive looked saddened. "So your previous desire still stands, Ravendor?" He asked. The other demon nodded and glanced at the other two Winsletts, the daughter sitting in her mother's lap. Catherine was hugging the girl, but Kaitlyn had one of her hands clasped around the body of the small silver cross. Ravendor would miss it, but he probably wouldn't need it where _he_ was going. He reflected on this again. The only demon who could stand to wear a silver cross…

"Listen, Clive…" Ravendor sighed, shifting himself a little so that he could sit up a little straighter. He tried to speak without needing to take a break, despite the fact that it taxed him horribly. With a lot of effort, he extended one wing, though the other was far too damaged to move anymore. "I was given these wings because they called me an angel. They are blackened by their intent and purpose. Birds are given wings to fly, just like drifters grow their own wings to fly across the wasteland. They are a symbol of freedom." Now he paused for a few moments, needing to catch his breath to speak once more. "However, these wings to me do not symbolize freedom, they symbolize the chains that bind me to my past, and to my duty as…" He had to catch himself from saying the word 'Master', "…To my duty as Malik's personal plaything. I hate these filthy black wings, but I also understand that my freedom and right to my own life has passed far too long ago. I have nothing left. Kaitlyn is dead, and Isabelle is dead. All I want to do… is rejoin them. This is probably my last chance to do just that…" He looked at Clive sincerely, almost pleadingly. "If you truly are my friend, then you will honor that wish."

Catherine dropped her gaze, biting the inside of her cheek almost painfully. She knew that what Ravendor had just said wasn't the exact truth, although she was the only one who knew this. The only living one, anyway. She had kept so many secrets in her lifetime, one might have, in light of these hidden secrets, dubbed her a liar. It was so very true that Catherine had lied to both Clive _and_ Ravendor for too long to count, but she had only ever done so on the promise to a very dear friend. She had one secret left, and it hurt to keep it locked up anymore. It would be so easy to simply say something, to say _everything_, but it only became difficult when she looked at the man she had used to love in the eyes, or when she tried to find the key that would unlock her heart without tearing it into bleeding, painful pieces. Pain and lies. Lies and pain. That was all her mind was dwelling on, lately. All she wanted to do was to be rid of it, once and for all. Catherine knew the truth about Isabelle, a truth that even _Ravendor_ did not know.

But in an outburst that startled everyone, especially Catherine, _she_ was not the one to speak. Kaitlyn tore herself away from her mother's arms and stood bolt upright by herself, her little hands balled into fists. "Uncle Ravendor, that's a lie!" She exclaimed. "It's a lie! It's a lie! I know it is! She isn't dead! She isn't!" Then she fell to her knees and started to cry. Catherine was astonished by the outburst, and had to force her own burning tears back. But, this did give her the drive to break her silence one last time, and tell the truth while Ravendor was still alive to hear it. Catherine didn't know how Kaitlyn had known, but Clive, although oblivious to the secret itself, could have made a near accurate guess.

Catherine moved over and hugged Ravendor, getting heavy smears of black demon blood and panakeia down the front of her dress. She was shaking as she did so. "Oh Ravendor," She said forlornly and sadly, her voice wobbling, "Kaitlyn is right. I lied to you. I have lied to you for years, and I continue to lie to you. I thought the lies would finally stop after I heard that you were dead, that I wouldn't have to lie to you anymore, but now, knowing that you were alive, it makes all the lies a million times worse. I am so sorry. I didn't want to lie to you at all." Ravendor was sitting there limply, but with an enormous amount of effort, he raised his hand and put his arm around her back. Her warmth was truly comforting to him, and made the pain go away just a little.

"Whatever… do you mean… Catherine?" He asked, a little confused. What did she mean about lying to him? What could have been so important? Looking at Clive who was standing nearby, he could see clearly that the swordsman was just as confused as he was. Ravendor took in a breath, the feeling of sitting in a puddle of one own blood a truly unpleasant one. "I… do not… understand… what you are talking about…" He admitted, wincing a little as Catherine tightened the hug.

Yes, this felt right. Even before she had begun to tell her tale, she was already beginning to feel better because of it. Now she had no doubt, Ravendor deserved to know. "Before Kaitlyn died, just before, she made me make a promise to her, one that I would never break." She explained morosely. "You see, she knew that if I ever told you the truth, you would try and do more than you what were capable of, and it would have been bad for both you, and for Isabelle's future. She wanted Isabelle to have a bright future, a happy future, one outside of Little Twister and it's corrupting ways. But Kaitlyn also knew that she was going to die very soon, and would never see that future for herself. Kaitlyn didn't want you to be burdened with a daughter you couldn't take care of, so she wanted us to tell you, after she died, that Isabelle was delivered as a stillborn and perished with her. That was not the truth. Isabelle survived, and now, she is still alive in Filgaia today."

Ravendor seemed to stiffen at Catherine's last words. "Wh-what…?" He said quietly, in a tone that was almost a rasping whisper. At once, he almost forgot about his agonizing wounds and tried get up, thought it was impossible with his injuries and Catherine hugging him. Letting go of the dark-haired man, she pulled away and the dark black and blue blood clung tenaciously to her clothing, streaking a little on the fabric. The panakeia was watery and foul, and the rest of the blood smelt of machine oil. A soft black feather was stuck to her dress, matted down with the liquid.

Catherine smiled a small, wan smile, both her hands on Ravendor's shoulders. "Your daughter is very much alive, Ravendor. She was sent to the Claiborne Christian orphanage and was adopted by a family that lives in the town of Little Rock. She is not called Isabelle anymore, she was renamed to Annette, and now she runs the ARMsmith shop there. She just turned sixteen a month or two ago." Her smile disappeared when she saw Ravendor's mixed expression, and she seemed to droop, sighing. "I made sure to keep tabs on her while she was growing up, out of my obligation to Kaitlyn's last wishes. I am so very sorry, Ravendor. This was… this was one of the only ways that she wouldn't have to live a life just like yours or Clive's or any of the other unfortunate children in that town. It broke Kaitlyn's heart to know that you would never see your daughter at all, but it had to be done, and _I_ am the one who carried it out." Catherine closed her eyes. "That is the truth. That was the burden that I have carried on my conscience for all these years. Now, you must hate me as much as you hated Clive. But, I am deserving of that hate. I lied to you, and _nothing_ can undo what I have already done. I'm sorry…"

There was a long and weighty silence, one that seemed to go on forever. Clive had lowered his sword and was clenching and unclenching his hands around the leather grip, Kaitlyn was now silent and staring at the ground. Ravendor was just looking at Catherine, in neither a positive, nor negative way. For a moment, she could have sworn that there were tears in the dark-haired man's eyes. Finally, after far too long, Ravendor spoke.

"… You are sorry. …What for?" He answered softly, trying to conserve as much strength as possible. "It was… Kaitlyn's will to see that what you did happened. She would now have… a much better life than _I_ could have ever… given her. And… as long as Isabelle is alive, I do not care… if I ever see her or not. Truthfully, I would desire nothing else, but… if that was the price that needed to be paid for her happiness, then I would gladly pay it." He chuckled weakly, but that brought on a small coughing fit that made him lose even more blood. "You did the right thing, Catherine. I am… proud of you, that you… honored Kaitlyn's last wishes for all… these years. Annette… so her name is Annette now…" Leaning back, he closed his eyes. "What is she like?" He wondered aloud.

Clive replied this time, having been listening in on the conversation and had met the girl a few times before in his own travels. "Pale blue eyes, just like her mother." He said, his words strangely seeming to come from somewhere else. "Long brown hair, the same colour as her grandfather's, and she wears glasses too, with a voice like an angel. She is very, _very_ intelligent, almost unnaturally so. I think she may have inherited that from you, Ravendor. She runs her own store, all by herself, without any help. Whoever it was that adopted her seemed to have taken _very_ good care of her."

The winged demon smiled heart-brokenly. "I would have liked to have met her…" He admitted. "But now… it seems rather unlikely. Besides, I am a no more than a filthy demon. What use would she have to know me as her father now?" To make his point, Ravendor tried to flex his wings again, but the nerve damage was far too great, resulting in nothing more than a pathetic shudder. Ravendor laughed again, ignoring this. "At least… there is another Begucci in this world that is not like… the old man. Knowing this, I can die in peace now." Reaching into the inside of his jacket, he pulled out his Peacemaker ARM and held it out for Clive to take. It was unloaded, and hesitantly, Clive accepted it. "Give this to her." He instructed, "And tell her that I am sorry." The swordsman looked at the small weapon for a while, then sullenly nodded, putting it carefully in one of the inner pockets of his coat.

__

She is alive, Isabelle is alive! She is alive, she lives, she is alive! Oh gods, oh Kaitlyn… I never… knew… If I knew… I would have…No, it does not matter, as long as she is alive. I just wish I could have known sooner…

Ravendor bowed his head and didn't say anything more, and at this precise time, the rest of the Maxwell gang managed to meet up with them, about as healthy as they could be in the situation. They had stopped earlier to treat Jet's leg, despite having no wood to make an adequate split, they had no choice but to bandage the breakage and hop for the best. Virginia was acting as his human crutch once more, Gallows also offering aid. Dario was, as always, trailing behind. Virginia nearly dropped Jet when she saw Clive properly, splashed in blood with his clothing torn and his cracked glasses, coupled with the deadly blade he was holding in his hand, he looked like a madman out of some kind of horror novel. But then Clive smiled at her, and the feeling suddenly abated.

When Jet looked up, he noticed the injured demon and raised his Airget-lamh on reflex, curling his lip back into a sneer. "Bastard." He snarled, narrowing his eyes. He still hadn't forgiven Ravendor for a great many things just yet. "Goddamn motherfucking bastard." His finger itched to pull the trigger, to empty his entire clip into the body of the demon, but then Kaitlyn walked out into his line of fire and put her small hand on the tip of the barrel, shaking her head as she did so. Clive likewise hooked Kuronegaiken's blade underneath the ARM and tilted it up, away from Jet's target. His smile was a tired crooked one. There would be no more fighting tonight. He would make sure of it.

Clive looked at the rest of his team steadily and then withdrew his blade, sheathing it by his side. "Ravendor has paid penance for his crimes. I have forgiven him. Catherine has forgiven him. Even Kaitlyn has forgiven him too. Forgiveness is always so much better than revenge. Please, I ask that you do not attempt to harm him anymore. He has been through enough. You see, he is just like me." The swordsman looked back towards the other demon, who was holding his arm weakly across his face so that he could cry his silent tears into his moderately clean coat sleeve. Clive still did not find any pity within himself. He had cried just as much when he found out that his _own_ daughter was still alive.

"If…" He tried to explain this as best as he could. "If Catherine had picked Ravendor over myself, if things had been different, then it would have been _me_ who was drifting alone, and it would have been _me_ to have perished in these ruins ten years ago. _I_ would have become the puppet of the Prophets, while Ravendor, perhaps, would have fathered Kaitlyn instead of me. Then, you would have met _him_ on that fateful night on the train all those months ago, protecting the ark scepters, and _I_ would have been the one to kidnap Kaitlyn and send us all through this version of hell. Can you fault him for a deed that was preordained by fate probably eons before our own births? I cannot."

Virginia brushed her brown hair out of her eyes, it was far more annoying now that it had been loosened from it's long and familiar plait. She didn't seem very convinced, but trusted Clive's judgement impeccably. She just wanted to get out of there. This long arduous task had worn her to the bone. "Should we allow him to live, he will be under your responsibility, right, Clive? I know I can trust you, demon or not, without a doubt, but I just can't trust _him_. He _is_ also a demon, a menace, and a Prophe-"

"Nevertheless, he is still my brother, first and foremost." Clive replied curtly, cutting her off. Glancing up for a few seconds, he sighed, then almost on reflex, extended his right arm, the one holding onto his sword. He didn't know why he did it, until from out of nowhere two pairs of tiny little talons bit into his sleeve and Kestorael landed gracefully, cawing a little in confusion. The bird had made it his duty to stay away from trouble when it had been brewing all around him. Now that it seemed to be over, the bird had returned. Hopping up onto Clive's shoulder, he took one look at Ravendor and warbled sadly, ruffling his feathers. Kestorael had known it would happen eventually, but still, it distressed the bird greatly to see his master in pain.

Clive shifted his weight from one foot to another, feeling uncomfortable for a second. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn that he had picked up a very soft vibration from the ground, lightly massaging the soles of his feet. Gallows, also, looked uneasy. This was enough to trigger a sense of apprehension to run rampant in his mind, growing without any control. Ravendor touched the ground with the back of his armor-plated hand, and then looked up, wiping his eyes on his coat sleeve. It looked like he tried to stand up again, but failed miserably.

"…When… when Diablo's power stores are… finally depleted… it can trigger… a self-destruct mechanism in the… reactor that stores… the golem's energy. I feel that… that… Diablo has… already activated this mechanism…" Another vibration ran through the floor, and now it felt and sounded like the ground was softly humming. "Despite Diablo's… current position… away from us… ourselves… I can assume that… the reactor will be… powerful enough to… destroy this ruin and everybody within it…"

Gallows freaked. "It can WHAT?!" He practically screamed.

Grabbing her husband's hand, Catherine displayed a more subdued kind of fright. "Honey, we have to get out of here! We have to evacuate!" Clive nodded and turned to the direction of the exit, able to see it through the shades of darkness. His heart skipped several beats. The exit was blocked by the same pile of rocks that had trapped the Maxwell gang earlier before. There was no way on earth they could remove the obstruction, not after Gallows had used a magnarize arcana to bid all the rocks together into a protective dome. They were trapped.

A powerful shock-wave slammed through the floor and up the walls, a distinct smell of napalm brewing down from within the depth of the huge chasm. Somewhere down there, Diablo was preparing to explode. In this way, it truly _could_ be called the Crimson Hellstorm. A chunk of the roof fell, shattering into shards of stone just far enough to not be of any danger. Any closer, however, could have filled one of them up like a pincushion. Kaitlyn let out a cry, ever since the rockfall that had nearly killed her, such a thought of it happening again was a little too much for her.

Another one fell, directly above their heads, but this time Clive leapt and slashed at the boulder, cutting it into two great semicircles that fell away harmlessly at either side. Virginia was clinging onto Jet with fear, and Jet himself was not resisting her attentions. Gallows looked like he was about to start running around in circles screaming, and Dario looked like he was about to join him. Ravendor was still leaning against the rock, and now, his breathing was beginning to weaken and a strange kind of warmth was spreading from within him. Ravendor recognised it as the onset of death.

"Clive, come over here." He said, and his voice was somehow loud enough for it to reach Clive's ears, although the dark-haired demon was speaking in a tone only a shade louder than that of a whisper. Obeying, Clive walked over to the other demon, kneeling so he could speak with his brother better. Ravendor had finally stopped bleeding altogether, though Clive noticed with a sinking sensation that the light was at last leaving the bandit-leader's eyes for good. "This place is my grave. I have died here before, and I have no fear of dying here again. I am already dead, anyway. But thank… you… Clive. Thank you… It was… your… daughter… It was… Kaitlyn… that finally… showed me… the light…" Closing his eyes for the last time, Ravendor took Clive's hand and pressed it against his forehead. "I… love… you… Cl…live… don't… forget… that… I… always… ha…ve…"

The other demon was on the verge of bursting out in tears himself. "I know, Ravendor. I love you too. You're the only real brother I have ever had."

Ravendor nodded weakly, and raised the only hand that he had left that was still free. Kaitlyn's blue ribbon was caught in the gap between his thumb and other fingers, pale blue against metallic black.

He snapped his fingers and cast the last kind of teleportation spell he could hope to muster. The Maxwell gang, the Winslett family, and Dario all disappeared in a rushing of relentless shadow.

"…Goodbye." He whispered.

xxx

By the time Diablo had exploded and the roof had caved in upon itself, Ravendor Begucci was already dead.

xxx

Before any of them knew it, the small group of humans and one demon were outside, in the cool night air and rustling winds of Dune Canyon in the night. Dead trees creaked under the soothing movements of the wind, and a cloudless sky illuminated all the stars that could be seen. They were a little dazed at first, their minds trying to catch up with the displacement of their bodies, and then all at once they swooned as their equilibrium's stabilized. It didn't feel like a headache, as they would have expected, but more like their brains had gone into a liquid state for a few seconds and then went back to normal without any pain at all. Gallows and Virginia were holding Jet up, acting as the young drifter's two crutches. Besides Clive, he had been the most injured fighter and was deserving of the most care and support. Catherine and Dario were standing next to each other, both confused and a little disoriented. Clive found himself holding Kaitlyn at this time and he set the little girl down on the ground, the least affected of them all. He still had Kestorael sitting on his shoulder, the bird about as downcast as any bird could be.

"Is everybody alright?" He asked, trying to hide the fact that he felt like crying. "Is everybody safe?" A few of them nodded, namely the rest of the Maxwell gang and Catherine, so Clive performed a quick head-count. They all seemed to be present and accounted for, except for Ravendor. He was still inside. He had forced Clive and the others to leave him there to die. Kaitlyn looked around worriedly and didn't see her uncle anywhere, and then turned towards the entrance of the caverns. There were still heavy vibrations of the explosions running through the ground and the substructure of the caves, slowly pummeling the foundation into dust. Inside, large rocks of the ceiling would probably be falling violently to the floor. Yes, the entrance was still open, but Clive highly doubted that any pathways inside remained intact.

Kaitlyn tried to run to the entrance but Gallows firmly grabbed her arm and held her back, needing no effort but also taking no pleasure in the action. Kaitlyn struggled but could not break his grip, upset. "Let me go!" She cried. "Let me go, Uncle Gallows! Uncle Ravendor's still in there and we have to help him! We have to go back and save him! He's gonna be trapped if we don't! Mama! Daddy! Make him let me go!" At every exclamation, she tried to break free, to no avail. Clive and Catherine made no move to help her, though it pained them greatly to do so.

"Kaitlyn…" Clive said after a while, "I am sorry. He is gone." The little girl stopped resisting Gallows almost instantly, dropping her small hands to her sides. Hesitantly, Gallows let go of her, and she didn't move. Clive knew it was terribly harsh of him to admit this to his own daughter, but he could not, and _would_ not let anybody hide from the truth. Enough truth had been hidden on such an account. "I'm sorry Kaitlyn, but it was his choice to stay behind." On these words, they all heard a loud rumble and a cloud of dust rushed out of the opening, a large fragment of the upper cliff-side caving inwards, imploding and falling away into the caves. Then, finally, the structure of the entrance broke under the pressure and it collapsed, removing the only way out. There was no cave now, just a thick and large quarry; a giant tomb.

"…Uncle Ravendor…" Kaitlyn said, but did not say anything more.

Kestorael cawed sadly at the huge pile of rocks, knowing full well what it meant. This was the second time that he had escaped from that ruin, but this time he knew his master was not coming back. Catherine took Clive's hand and Kestorael changed seats, fluttering onto Catherine's shoulder. He cawed again, but it was more like a sigh, or a sad whimper. Absently, Catherine patted the poor bird's feathered back. All of the Winsletts were looking up at the remains of the ruin, and during this, Jet bit back a groan and slid his arms off Virginia and Gallows's shoulder, looking at something out of the corner of his eye. Lombardia was silent and sitting in the nearby shadows, she must have pinpointed their location and arrived there while they were inside the caves. She didn't make any noise, honoring the silence that was around them. Dario sat down heavily, exhausted.

"Daddy…" Kaitlyn said after being quiet for a long time, looking up at the mountain-side. Her hand was lightly resting over the silver cross necklace that she was wearing. "Do you think Uncle Ravendor's gonna be going to Heaven?" She looked up at him sincerely and appraisingly, smiling a little. Kaitlyn was still a little too young to fully grasp the importance and significance of death, but managed to accept it in her own manner. This let her be sad for the shortest amount of time possible. Clive wished that he could think in the same way. Catherine looked at her husband, but decided to let Clive handle the answer.

"I hope so, Kaitlyn." Clive replied slowly, patting the little girl on the head. "I hope so." Then, after this, Kaitlyn wrapped her arms around Clive's middle and buried her face into his side, her sharp and stifled sobs muffled by his red coat. Sighing, Clive held up Kuronegaiken, a weapon that he wouldn't need anymore, and looked at it, wishing the sword to disappear. Instead, he planted the weapon in the ground nearby and left it there, until he would need it again. The blade glittered in the moonlight and Clive glanced up, taking note of the full moon. The pale moonbeams did not hurt him anymore, though gazing at it's crater-filled face made his shoulder prickle a little with unpleasantness. Then it stung a bit more, and then a bit more. Clive knew that his old bite wound had reopened again.

__

The curse cannot change me anymore. I have beaten it. I have won. _But, I could have never beaten it without the help from my friends. Thank God for… Thank you God for, for… for everyone I love…_

Clive felt faint, but then realised that it was rather late in the night and that he was exhausted. More than that, he was beyond exhausted, all of his stamina had been worn away. Now he felt too tired even to yawn. Hours and hours of fighting, of ceaseless tracking, of forced change and agony crept up on him all at once and he swayed a little, a small damp patch appearing on his coat near his shoulder at the same time, wetting it with blood. Everybody there looked at him with genuine concern. Gently, Catherine squeezed Clive's hand a little bit, but did not get any reply. The rest of the Maxwell gang crowded around him, concerned.

__

…It feels like my body is disintegrating… As if Filgaia herself is denying me my very existence…It is like…if I close my eyes, I will just disappear forever… I have never… been this tired before… Yes. When I fall down, as soon as I touch the ground, my body will turn to dust and disappear, and I will die. I do not want to die… but… it feels as if I have no choice…

Catherine's voice, echoing in his mind. _"You are **not** alone."_

Clive fell.

Five pairs of hands caught him, and would not let him go.


	86. Elegy For The Villains

It was a few hours later when Clive finally achieved consciousness, and it came slowly at that, like he was floating in a sea of sleep while he stubbornly tried to break the surface into proper coherence. His mind felt groggy, his limbs tired and achy, and for several confused moments, he had forgotten all about what had happened while inside the caverns. He opened his eyes and his vision was greeted with a veil of darkness, covering the grim sandy wasteland with night. It was not absolute in it's embrace, however, and Clive could see a small fire crackling heartily a few feet away from him, the playful leaping flames illuminating the rest of his friends and comrades. They were all there, everyone, _everyone_ that he had missed.

They were ringed around the fire in a little circle, sitting on deadwood logs that had probably come from some of the decrepit trees lying around the canyon. Clive knew that he was leaning against one himself, the only support that was keeping him in a sitting position. He leaned into the wood a little more, tilting his head back a little and taking a nice deep breath of pure clean air. It was a lot more wholesome than the stuffy dust-infested breeze that had haunted the caverns, he could vouch for that himself. Clive smiled slightly and yawned weakly, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. If had felt like he had slept for about a week, though it didn't help his physical condition very much. Looking up at the stars, he could tell from their position that it must be near midnight, almost the very next day. Midnight, the point where it was neither one day nor the next.

Virginia was sitting on the opposite side of the fire to where Clive was, Jet also sitting closely next to her. He was practically leaning into Virginia's side, which would have looked quite cute to the casual onlooker, until one noticed the bandages around Jet's chest, the ones wrapped around his forehead like some kind of bandanna, and the remade sling binding his gun-arm, because the boy had managed to damage it badly once more. His leg was still broken and wrapped in a firm splint, but it had been treated with medicinal herbs and several healing arcana, now resting slightly elevated on a flat stone. Jet looked beyond tired and beaten up, in fact, Clive could almost _feel_ Jet's aura's pain. Virginia was there, though, and Jet seemed to be grateful for that, in his own silent way. It was probably the only reason why he allowed himself to cuddle into her like a small sleepy child.

Gallows was next to Jet, and sitting on Clive's right, with Kaitlyn in her lap. He was cleaning the blood from her face and casting a heal arcana over her as well, trying to remove the small bruises that Romero had given her a little while before. Kaitlyn was sitting still and allowing the magic to wash over her in pleasant waves, her eyes closed in some kind of calm. Clive didn't know this, because he had been unconscious, but for all the time after the caverns had fell, Kaitlyn had been as quiet and as subdued as an introverted adult. She had smiled though, as they had expected her to, but for the first time, that smile lacked the unadulterated happiness that was within each little boy and girl, those who were blissfully ignorant. Kaitlyn had gotten a premature taste of the horrors of life, and in experiencing this, a small part of her childhood had been stolen away forever. But somehow, Kaitlyn felt herself a little wiser for it, though she had no idea why. Gallows patted her on the head when he was finished, and then she smiled again, in that exact same way.

Dario was on Clive's left, the bearded bandit seeming to be uncomfortable sitting next to a creature that had almost killed him in an inhuman form. He had a long stick and was poking the fire gently, as if the coaxing motion would make dawn come quicker and then he could leave. He was the outsider in their current group, one of the members of the enemy. He had only been allowed to stay because it was the humane thing to do, and because Kaitlyn had wanted him to stay with them, if only for a little while. She had already explained to her mother that Dario was a 'nice man', one who had been kind to her when she was away from her family, and that he didn't deserve to be treated cruelly by anyone at all. By this token, Dario was ignored. In truth, Dario himself was quite content to _continue_ being ignored, that way nothing bad could possibly happen to him. He was still in a little bit of shock over Romero's death, too.

A cold damp cloth was pressed against Clive's cheek now, the wetness startling him just a little. Slowly, the cloth rubbed back and forth a bit and he realised that it was Catherine wiping the dried blood from his face, the ex-drifter sitting very closely by his side. Clive tried to lean into her but discovered that the side she was sitting on was also his injured side, and it would be quite impossible for him to move it so much without worsening his injury. He tried to say something but Catherine made a small hushing noise, causing his planned words to fall dead on his tongue. She smiled, but it was a sad, almost regretful smile. "Hello, Honey." She greeted softly, cleaning the blood and dirt away. "Did you sleep well? It has been quite some time since you fainted, we were starting to get a little worried about you. Please do not speak if it hurts too much, just concentrate on getting well again."

Clive had no wish to speak in the first place. Instead, he looked into the burning fire and analyzed the dancing flames, eating away and blackening the timber underneath. The memory of what had happened, it was still fresh in his mind, like an unpleasant brand or tattoo, but it was also very distant, like remembering a dream only seconds after waking. Had he really fought Ravendor in a demon duel to the death? Did he really see Boomerang's past, and recognise it as his own? Had he really been bitten by Luceid and turned into some kind of half-wolf, half-humanoid creature? It all just felt like some kind of horrible bad dream. Clive ran his tongue along the tops of his teeth and then felt the elongated structure of the demon fangs in his jaw, and moved his tail a little bit to see if it was real or not. Yes, it _was_ real. It had _really_ happened.

Lowering the hand that bore the cloth, Catherine pulled away and wrung the water out of it, along with the cleaned-off blood. She then picked up a medical kit that Gallows had given her and opened it, removing a long thin needle and a length of twine. Using her experience of sewing, Catherine threaded the needle and tied the doubled-over thread at the end, readying it for use. "I am sorry." She whispered to her husband. "I haven't had time to treat your wound properly yet, I was too busy aiding Gallows in the treatment of Jet, Virginia and Kaitlyn's injuries and trauma to really be of any help to you. I knew you would not mind, you seemed to be the most resilient of us all. But I can treat you now. Just hold still."

He felt a small pinprick in his shoulder and anticipated another burning episode of pain from the action, just like it had happened before with himself and the antidote. The thought was foolish and Clive knew that he should have known better, but a primitive part of his mind caused him to flinch from the tiny bit of pain, a small jerk that he could not control. Had Clive the ability to see his own wound better, it would have made him cringe even more. Deep tooth-marks had torn apart the flesh of his shoulder, not ripping the tissue away, just gashing it in a way that would have made it most painful to deal with. He may not have turned into a monster, but the old wound had come back to haunt the swordsman's steps. Catherine threaded the needle through one side of the deep gash and silently remarked upon how easily the piece of metal could move through Clive's tissue, and how she expected that the wound could hold together properly as long as she took enough time and care. Crossing the thread to the other part of the wound, Catherine started to stitch Clive up as best as she possibly could.

The needle moved swiftly through Clive's wound, the fine thread trailing behind it weaving throughout his flesh and gradually pulling taut the reopened injury. Catherine was making neat little stitches that would hopefully leave only a small scar, provided that the wound would remain clean and sterilized. She had already bathed the bite with an antiseptic wash earlier when Clive was unconscious, making use of all the healing and medicinal items that had been stocked up inside Lombardia's metal shell. Clive didn't even have the energy to flinch whenever the needle-tip pierced his skin, his dark mahogany eyes staring blankly into space. He blinked a couple of times and then at last regained complete coherence. His head was killing him and his body felt far too weak to move, stiff from finally receiving needed rest. The only part he could properly feel was a long dull burning ache in his shoulder, reminding him of his more recent past.

Clive made a small, almost whimpering noise as he raised his right hand carefully and placed it over Catherine's left hand, the ex-drifter leaning over him as she stitched up his wound. Enclosing his hand around hers, he felt an immense amount of relief when she squeezed back. His throat felt immensely dry and scratchy, practically withered, making him deeply desire a glass of water above almost anything else. He would have to wait, though, because the last thing he could do right now was to stand up and maybe even walk around, to search for a source of water. He could feel the cool night breeze on his skin, his coat, vest and shirt having been cut to ribbons during his last decisive fight. Most of his injuries had healed well, except for the wound on his shoulder that Catherine was trying her very best to mend.

And it was quite clear now of the extent of which Clive's body had changed. The small patch of fur that had been growing over his bitten shoulder had spread across his front, his back, and a little down one of his arms. On his chest it was slightly longish and a clean shade of white, while the rest was a little bit shorter and coloured a dark greyish-blue. The fur was very soft, not quite like silk and not quite like wool, it was unnatural and an unwanted side-effect of the lycanthrope curse. Clive really didn't mind this very much, because the night was very cold and the fur was offering him a little bit of warmth. Clive felt that he needed all the warmth that he could possibly get. "I…" Clive managed to rasp a bit, trying to speak. "I… slept too much." He said, and then smiled.

The ex-drifter smiled as well, almost finished with the repair on Clive's shoulder. "You deserve to rest, Clive." She assured him, "We all deserve a good long rest." Catherine removed a small pair of scissors from the medical bag and cut short the rest of the twine, tying it firmly near the end of the bound wound so the thread would have no way to unravel itself. It looked a lot better than before, much cleaner and less painful. Clive felt the burning increase slightly when Catherine dug her hand into the bag again and pulled out a small vial of liquid, pouring it onto the damp cloth that she had wrung dry only a few minutes ago. The smell coming from the vial was very purifying and sterilizing and Catherine rubbed it into the fabric, then carefully placing the cloth over the wound for a little while, to allow the flesh to absorb some of the unidentified elixir's properties.

It stung when the cloth touched Clive's wound, but the sting also drove the aching burn away, which was far better than what Clive could had hoped for. It was just when his shoulder was beginning to feel numb when Catherine at last removed the cloth again, using it to wash off the dried splashes of blood upon his fur and skin. He felt a little bit inadequate to let his wife care for him like a baby, but he honestly didn't mind right now, it felt good just to be near her again without the treat her of her being taken away. The smell of the strange elixir brought renewed vigor into Clive's body and he felt more stalwart and secure, sitting up from his almost slouching position.

Virginia finally noticed that Clive was awake, the drifter leader straightening a little and smiling hesitantly. "Clive," She said, "You are yourself now, right? I think it's finally over. We'll spend the rest of the night here tonight and then we'll head back to Humphrey's Peak tomorrow morning. We're all a little too tired now to move anyway." She looked down. "And, um, I suppose you might be a little too fragile for us to risk moving in the first place. Truthfully, Gallows says that by all rights you should be dead now." He had taken an unbelievingly brutal beating during the time they had been in the caverns, if it had not been for his advanced metal body, he would have perished hours ago.

"Yes Virginia, I am myself." Clive answered, his voice growing a little stronger from exposure to the elixir fumes. "This is about as a human as I will ever be again. I do not think it will be too bad though, perhaps being part wolf will make me a finer and more efficient drifter. I know I can track better than I ever could have accomplished before." He felt better when Virginia cracked a smile at this, the girl looking back into the fire. Catherine took out a roll of pristine white bandages and began to bandage Clive's shoulder tightly, to prevent an infection penetrating the stitched-up wound. She was being so gentle that Clive barely even noticed what she was doing. "I am not a human, but I am not quite a demon either. I would like to believe that I bear the characteristics of both. If I do that, then I think I could live with myself without hating myself at the same time."

"And I think we can live with that as well." Virginia agreed, nodding. Then she lowered her head a little bit. "Clive, I'm… I'm sorry about the way I treated you back in Claiborne. It was just so hard to accept that one of my best friends could have become such a horrible monster. I was so paralyzed with fear that I acted intolerantly and I hit you. I didn't know what I was supposed to think or do. But then," At this point Virginia smiled a little bit. "Then Jet set me straight. I guess I forgot that humans aren't the only creatures that can think and regret their own actions." The drifter leader's hands had been clasped tightly in her lap, but then she raised one happily, grinning. "If the demon race had been more like you, Clive, then there would have been no need for their eradication!"

This made Clive think back through Boomerang's memories, but for the moment, he would keep silent about that part of himself. He would tell the others all about Boomerang later, when he was more rested and sure of himself, but until then, he decided to remain quiet about it. Right now, all it would do if he told them would confuse them all. Clive didn't want that. "You do not have to apologise." He told her kindly, "You had every right to act the way you did back then. It is I who should apologise for disappearing when I promised to remain with you. However," He looked up at the dark sky momentarily, "If I had not been a demon with a durable metal body, then I would never have been able to destroy Ravendor and the hate that he brought with him into this reality. If I had still been human, I wonder what would have happened to us all? Fate can work in unusual ways, sometimes."

__

Fate is the string of music to which we all dance the dance of life. In it is woven the notes that make up destiny, and the staves in the sheet of music are the guiding future that we walk to with our heads held high. But if fate is the music, then that must make desire the musician, the desires that make people dance to the tune of fate. If Luceid knew what was going to happen… did she… did she awaken my memories on purpose, to give the human race a fighting chance against their own impending destruction? _Did she anticipate this from the very beginning?_

It sounded so crazy that Clive could have almost believed that it was true. Glancing over to where Kuronegaiken was standing, the end of it's blade buried in the sandy earth, Clive felt a shiver pass through him and he decided to look away. Catherine finished binding his wound with the bandage and pinned off the end with a small metal clasp, finished with her work. Smiling, she kissed him softly on the cheek and sat back down next to her husband, draping a thin brown blanket over the both of them. Kaitlyn had a metal ladle in her hands and was using it to nudge a moderately-sized pot resting in the middle of the small fire, because her arm was not long enough to actually insert it into the pot itself. Gallows chuckled and removed the ladle from her hand, stirring whatever it was in the pot by himself. It smelt like stew, not unlike the stuff that Shane had been cooking in the Carradine household yesterday afternoon.

Gallows poured a small amount of the stew into a small wooden bowl using the ladle liberated from Kaitlyn, then he passed it over to Virginia, dropping a spoon into the stew for her to use. The food wasn't for herself, though. It was for Jet. Helping the silver-haired youth to sit up a little bit, she passed him the spoon, but Jet's hands weren't working properly and he ended up dropping it within a few short seconds. Using his inborn power and fighting too much had hurt him more than he had expected, the effects of his actions manifesting as a delayed reaction. Jet slumped a little, sighing in defeat.

Virginia helped Jet to eat, treating him like how a nurse would treat a handicapped patient, holding the spoon up to his lips so that he could drink the more thinner part of the stew. Jet needed to keep his strength up, and Virginia honestly liked to help. The thing that the others found most unusual about this was that Jet was actually _letting_ her treat him like a baby, although Clive guessed that if it had been anybody else they would have had their head wrenched from their shoulders. He also knew that Jet would recover in a few days, a week or so at the most, while his broken leg would take a little longer to heal. This wouldn't stop the boy from drifting, not at all. As long as he had somebody to lean on, to use as a crutch and as support, then he would be okay. And that somebody seemed to be Virginia Maxwell.

Clive accepted the other bowl of stew when Gallows offered it to him, gripping the wooden rim of the container and resting it in his lap. Lazy wisps of steam and a tantalizing aroma of stew wafted from it, smelling of many different kinds of vegetables. Gallows's special stew, he guessed, but he could also tell that there was absolutely no meat in it whatsoever. He would have smelt it otherwise. It was perfect. Grasping the wooden spoon carefully, Clive noticed that he had a small scar on the back of his hand, and when he set the spoon back down again and turned it over, there was an identical upon his palm, a reminder of when he had been pinned to the wall and ruthlessly tortured. Clive knew that this scar had a twin on his other hand, and he hoped vehemently that his healing factor could remove them in a few days. Sighing, Clive picked up the spoon again and tried the stew, his hand just the slightest bit shaky and nearly causing him to spill some of the stew down his front.

It tasted like potatoes and carrots, with the smallest hint of celery, and the thought of vegetables didn't repulse him anymore, not as it would have when he was under the influence of the curse. Clive felt that he had had enough raw meat and blood to last him for several lifetimes. It made him a little sick to know that he was probably digesting part of Romero's remains right now. But he had to stop thinking about things like that. No matter how much he pondered over the negative things in his mind, he could not change the events of his past. It was time for him to get over it, and finally look towards the future without regret. If he could properly do this, then he could honor the memories of those who had died under his own bloodstained hands. Clive slowly ate the stew, savoring the vegetable taste. It seemed to get rid of the almost ever-present tang of coppery blood in his mouth.

"You know what, Clive?" Gallows remarked, his voice cutting through the deep silence of the camp. "I just remembered something important. While you were looking for your daughter, I was looking for part of that antidote, and I met somebody along the way. It was a weird and kinda creepy meeting, but I'm glad I met him, nonetheless. You remember that item merchant we keep on running into? Roykman, I think his name was. He told me to give you this message, and here it is." Gallows paused for a few seconds, trying to recall the information. "He said that you shouldn't feel guilty and it wasn't your fault, if you continue to blame yourself for the past, you will never atone and find repentance." The Baskar looked down. "I didn't really know what he was talking about back then, but now, I guess I do…"

The metal demon looked at his Baskar friend levelly, trying to think up the correct words to say. Then he sighed. "Gallows, you must be mistaken." Clive informed him. "There is simply no way that you could have met Roykman last night, it is quite impossible. I know this for sure. However, what you have relayed does made profound sense to me, in fact, I was thinking about that this very second. I do not know who it was you met for sure, but whoever that person may have been, he was very wise." Clive lowered his spoon into the half-eaten bowl of stew, setting it aside. "Roykman is dead. I am completely certain that he is dead. I tore the flesh from his bones myself. I do not like to reflect upon it, but it is true. In my madness, I slew him." Clive put a hand to the side of his face and let out a shuddering breath. "I have killed so many people, it makes me sick inside. Even if it was not my fault, it was these hands here that ripped the life from the pleading bodies of the innocent."

"You can blame your hands, Clive, but you can't blame yourself." Virginia told him solemnly and firmly. "Listen. You are not the only person who has blood on their hands, you know. If everybody on Filgaia backtracked over their lives, I bet they could all find a death or two to heap upon their record. A very dear friend of mine told me that justice can't be found everywhere, and I can agree with him. No matter what anybody does, people will still die. The best we can do is protect those we care about the most, and hope that they do the same. Clive…" The drifter leader stood up, her hands clasped together in front of her body. "Ever since Daddy died, I mean, ever since Hyades was sealed and his spirit left Filgaia, you've been like a surrogate father to me in every which way. I think my Daddy would be happy to know that you've been able fill the gap that he had to leave behind." Virginia gingerly rubbed her neck. "I'm sorry if I'm assuming too much about how you feel, but I-"

Clive also stood up, a motion that was more difficult than he would have originally anticipated. It hurt a little, but he ignored it. Limping a little, he walked around the fire and stopped about a foot away from Virginia, the girl turning slightly to face him. The metal demon moved his hand up to adjust his glasses, but then found out that he wasn't wearing any, his old pair far too cracked and broken to be of any use. Clive smiled and lowered his hands to his sides. "Virginia, I am honored that you choose to think of me in such a way. Truthfully, you have been like a daughter to me as well. I know I can never replace Werner and what he meant to you, and I sincerely do not wish to try, but I am glad to have been able to help you, Virginia. You have helped me as well. And I believe that is what bonds are all about."

Virginia nodded and hugged him, Clive gently patting her on the back. Though it was late and he was tired, Clive suddenly felt more alive and content than he had been for a very long time, the knowledge that everything was okay now finally letting his mind be at ease. There was just one more thing for him to do tonight that could at last put the souls of the past at peace. Clive pulled away and looked at the others, his right hand lightly touching the bandages holding his shoulder together.

"Everybody," He said, "I think it is time for the final interment. Let us give the wandering souls an undisturbed sleep."

xxx

Nearly everybody in the canyon had lost somebody dear to them that night. Clive had lost a brother while Dario had suffered likewise, doubly so. Jet had lost a mentor and Kaitlyn had lost her uncle, one that she had only just gotten to meet. Catherine had lost both a brother-in-law and an old lover, coping with the news of this death for the second time in her life. The only thing they could do now was pray that the dead would find their salvation. They had to put some faith into their prayers.

And it was so.

Seven people stood in a solemn line outside the collapsed entrance of the destroyed ruin, all of them had their heads down, bowed in quiet silence. Jet had his arm around Virginia's neck, using her as a crutch to keep his broken leg undisturbed. Other than this, one stood out and was standing in front of the others, speaking calmly and ritualistically, giving the three lost souls resting amidst the rubble, the casualties that had composed most of the renegade bandit team, their last burial rites. Gallows was best suited to this job, being an up-and-coming priest and all, but he was not doing this act out of simple personal charity, oh no, he was doing this as a special favor to Clive, and for his own priestly obligation. He still wasn't entirely sure what had happened between the time they had been encased by the falling rocks and the time when they had finally been released, but he knew in a deep gut feeling of his that something had happened. Something that had deeply changed the Winslett family into something else, a family that was much altered, and much wiser than before.

Gallows modified his rites a little, for the deceased involved were obviously not members of the Baskar faith. Dario had mentioned that Romero didn't follow any particular faith, while he had no idea of what Antonio had believed in. Did it really matter? They were all dead anyway. Dario had removed his hat and was twisting it slowly around in his hands, distractedly thinking of other things. Of the four brothers that had made up his little group, he was the only one left alive. What was he going to do now? Dario didn't think he could continue his life of debauchery after everything that had happened, he wasn't even sure if he _wanted_ to anymore. Without his brothers, Dario just couldn't be the bandit that he used to be. It made him wonder why on earth he was even still alive.

__

…'Prolly because that demon over there let me live. Leaning forward a bit and looking down the line of the tired congregation, he could see Clive near the end, holding both Catherine and Kaitlyn's hands in prayer. He had his eyes closed, and was not in the least bit threatening at the moment, but that didn't stop Dario from getting a severe case of the willies every time the bandit looked at him. He had seen the monster that Clive had become, and was very nearly slaughtered by it. How on Filgaia was he to remain calm with that _thing_ nearby? Impossible. "I know they weren't much in the way of personality an' all," Dario said quietly, speaking under Gallows's burial rites, "But Ro and 'Tonio were the only family I had left. They've all gone to see Lucio, I guess. We weren't even related, but dammit, it still hurts."

"I know how that feels." Clive answered without opening his eyes, causing Dario to jump a little. "I let my own big brother die. I didn't want him to die, but sometimes I cannot have my own way in life. If death was what he wanted, then I want his death to be without any pain or misery. I have seen Hell, and I know that Ravendor didn't deserve to be sent there. If God is merciful, then I can pray that He will have mercy on Ravendor's soul." Clive opened his eyes slightly, half listening to Gallows's chants. "That way," He continued, "I can let the dead rest without guilt."

"Yeah," Dario agreed, nodding. "You're right. I can do that too." Understanding this, it made his heart lighten a little, like a lead weight had dropped harmlessly away. It made his breathing better, a little less cumbersome than before.

Kaitlyn was gently rubbing the small silver cross hanging around her neck with her free hand, her little brow furrowed in thought. She squeezed her father's hand a little to get his attention and looked up at him imploringly. "Daddy, when we go home tomorrow, after that, I wanna go to Little Rock and see Annette. Please, Daddy? I just really wanna go. I really wanna see her again." Kaitlyn put her hand to her moth when she said the word 'again', wondering where it had come from. It had kind of popped out of her mouth and mind without her consent.

Catherine answered this time, tightening her grip on Kaitlyn's hand slightly. "Maybe Kaitlyn, when Daddy feels better." The girl nodded and resumed her little air of silence, looking at the huge pile of rocks in front of her with mixed feelings. Catherine looked over to Clive and smiled wanly, a smile that was strangely beautiful in her own little trademark way. "Honey, it does not hurt as much as I would have expected it to." She admitted calmly. "At first I thought it was because my heart had hardened to the pain of others, but then I suppose it was because I have already grieved over Ravendor's death earlier in my life. Actually, it almost makes me feel happy to know that he is dead, to know that he isn't suffering anymore. He suffered too much, and many long years ago, I tried to ease his suffering, but I just made it worse. This is… such a relief." Catherine released Kaitlyn's hand so that she could wipe the tears out of her eyes, sniffing.

Clive nodded calmly and knelt down to pick Kaitlyn up, letting the little girl lean on his uninjured shoulder. She was getting heavy, soon he wouldn't be able to pick her up like this anymore. It seemed like only yesterday that she was just a tiny little baby. Time went by so quickly that it nearly astounded him. Kaitlyn's golden-blonde head was bare of her two blue ribbons, the only one she had left had been removed and tied around her necklace, into a small blue bow behind the silver cross. It looked quite pretty and it seemed to suit Kaitlyn perfectly. Clive lifted the small cross from Kaitlyn's chest with two fingers gently and then looked at it, before smiling and letting it go. "My daughter is growing up so fast." He said with a hint of fatherly pride. "She is almost already grown up. Soon she will be just as big as me, right Kaitlyn?"

She herself nodded happily, her smile like warm sunshine. "And when that happens, Daddy, I wanna be a drifter just like you! I want to have adventures and a lot of fun too! Uncle Ravendor said that as long as I want to be a drifter, I can be." Kaitlyn awaited her father's reply and Clive set her back down on the ground again, pausing a little to pat her softly on the head. When Clive had been her age, he had already considered himself a proper drifter, and now to see Kaitlyn desire the same thing, it made him feel nostalgic and a little strange inside. But she had already survived such a horrible night filled with pain and death, and even that, she had showed more than ample skill in synchronizing with a finely-tuned ARM. It would be a huge waste of talent indeed to see her _not_ become a drifter at all.

"I do not doubt his words, or your ability," Clive said kindly, "But until your are big enough to fly on your own wings, will you stay here as my daughter, Kaitlyn? I am sure that your mother and I would miss you if you left too early." Kaitlyn giggled and hugged him, then she broke away and hugged her mother as well, very happily. While he was watching this, Clive felt a pair of small talons dig lightly into his right shoulder, tight enough to be secure while it was loose enough not to draw any blood. Kestorael cocked his head to one side and cawed a little, looked curiously at the green-haired demon. Clive closed his eyes. "Kestorael, it has been a very long time. I am sorry that your master had to die, it was a death that he didn't deserve. If…" Clive hoped that Catherine would allow him to do this, "If you have nowhere else to go, you can stay with us if you want. I do not mind. For as far back as I can remember, you have been like family."

The raven cawed loudly and bit Clive on the ear, the equivalent of deep gratitude and affection in raven linguistics. Clive chuckled and let the bird hop down his arm, so Kestorael could rest contentedly near his wrist. Gallows, nearby, was finishing off the burial rites in a low chanting tone, sounding more like a true priest than Clive had ever heard him before. The Baskar laced his fingers together and bowed, ceasing his chant to speak in simple quiet words.

"And so may the four Guardian Lords take these souls into their angelic care, hand in hand towards He who is composition of all godly power. May Zephyr guide you. May Luceid lead you. May Justine keep you. May Raftina bless you. Find eternal solace in the knowledge that those living grieve for your passing, and sleep in heavenly peace until the world is filled with blessed light. Romero Arlecchino Gigio. Antonio Soprano Orso. Ravendor Swanky Begucci. I lay you three to rest. Amen." Gallows untangled his fingers and then clapped his hands once, loudly. Just like that, the ceremony was over. Gallows lowered his hands and turned around, rubbing the back of his neck. "There," He said, "That's about all I can do for them."

"Thank you, my friend. It is more than enough." Clive said appreciatively, and then he yawned. Even though he had gotten a few hours sleep a little while ago, he was still dog tired. The metal demon looked over everybody there and saw that they were all quite exhausted themselves and ready for a night of undisturbed sleep. "Will we need a watch for tonight?" He asked them all, but then remembered Lombardia's presence. She would be on the lookout for intruders anyway, whether they asked her to or not. "Oh yes, Lombardia. I am so tired I cannot think straight." He admitted jovially. "I am going… to go back to sleep now, before I collapse on my feet again. I can sleep soundly knowing the dead are at rest."

"I second that idea." Virginia answered, still helping Jet to stand up without a crutch. The silver-haired youth looked tired, and so was she. Looking back at the campsite, she guessed that sleeping near the fire would keep them warm for the night. Catherine, Kaitlyn and Clive went back to their spot near the fire, both husband and wife sitting side-by-side with their daughter in their lap. The drifter-leader helped Jet back to their side of the campfire, easing him down into a comfortable position and covering him with a blanket. The night was cold, and she supposed that Jet wouldn't mind if she slept next to him, he would say something if he did. The boy just sighed and leant back into Virginia's side, closing his violet-coloured eyes.

Gallows looked at this subtle display of affection and sniggered quietly to himself, he really liked it when he was right. Now all he had to do was find some way to bring those two together even more, without anybody finding out his intentions. But that was not something to think about tonight, maybe later. The big Baskar glanced over the happy family on one side, and then the happy couple on the other. It seemed that he was the odd one out. Sighing, Gallows wished that Becky was here with him, to even things out. He felt all alone. Turning slightly, he noticed that Dario was still there. The bearded bandit waved slightly, then shrugged. "Noooooo…" Gallows moaned, falling over comically. He fell asleep that way a quarter of an hour later, in that same position. Everybody else in the camp had obediently followed suit.

And without notice, the night rolled on.

xxx

Somebody was snoring quietly in the campsite when the universal clock of time, struck the entry into the witching hour, the last dark hour before the dawn. It was a magical time, an arcane time, perfect for the realm of spirits and the realm of humans to blur slightly in their boundaries. It was time. Clive was leaning on his unhurt side with his arm around Catherine and Kaitlyn protectively when he heard the familiar angelic voice in his dreams, coaxing and beautiful. Magical.

__

…My love, it is time.

Time for you to come back, time for us to be together once more…

My dear sweet Boomerang, my darling noble Clive…

Come back to me.

Clive opened his eyes and groaned a little, sitting up. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, and he shook it slightly, getting rid of the clinging dregs of sleep. The voice of Luceid was calling him again, and he had no choice but to obey. Rubbing his eyes a little, the metal demon picked the sleeping Kaitlyn up with utmost care and put her in her mother's lap, trying hard not to accidentally wake her up. He pulled the thin blanket over the two girls and then kissed Catherine lightly on the cheek, quietly saying goodbye.

"Catherine, it is time for me to confront her. Please give me strength…" Clive stood up and looked around, glancing at the spot where Kuronegaiken had been thrust into the ground. The weapon was now gone. And this was the final signal that it was time to go. Glancing up at the starry sky, Clive knew that it would be morning soon, and the beginning of a new day.

"I will find you, Luceid…" Clive whispered softly to himself as he walked away from the camp, off into the canyon by himself. Completely unarmed.

"I must find you… my love…"


	87. Interlude I: Someday, Lasting, Serenade

****

Interlude I - Someday, Lasting, Serenade

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"In the entire english language, the kindest, and sometimes, the most difficult words a person can ever say to another is; 'I forgive you.'"

xxx

He was lying face-down in the dark. His clothes were a little torn from his last battle, holes ripped into his shirt and jacket from where the wires and cables had struck him mercilessly, though thankfully, all of his wounds and injuries seemed to have disappeared. He did not notice this, but his hands, which had previously been encased in hard unfeeling black metal, had flaked away like discarded scales while he had lain unconscious, revealing untouched human hands underneath. They were cold and pale, slightly marred in places where the metal armor had connected to the softer skin underneath. Those imperfections were gradually melting away though, disappearing as his healing factor worked without fault.

Everything around him was muffled by the intense darkness, and all of his senses seemed to be stolen from him, existing without the aid of sight or anything else. Actually, it felt like he only had one sense left, and that sense was everything, like he was part of something far greater than he could ever comprehend. However, it made him feel incredibly small and weak on the inside, having trouble remembering what had happened or why he was there. Ravendor groaned and pushed himself up with his arms, feeling as stiff as a frozen corpse. He noticed that his clothing was in tatters and soaked in dark black blood, by this time now dried. Forcing his joints to work, Ravendor was able to sit up at last.

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… What happened?

The landscape was completely destitute, bearing nothing but blackness. It was like an unformed dream world, or in his own case, a world of unending nightmares. This would probably become the nightmare that would never end. There was nothing around him, nothing above or below him. There was just… nothing left. The last thing he could remember was the entire cavern collapsing, and a muted explosion that he never got a chance to see. That was it, though. He couldn't recall anything else, though it seemed like an eternity had passed since that event.

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I guess I died…

The bandit leader slowly raised his hand and brushed some of his hair behind his ear, having been loosened from it's ponytail a short while before his death. By all right he should have been in agony from his grave injuries, wherever they had disappeared to. It was true that he could heal fast, but no demon in Filgaia could heal _that_ fast. Ravendor touched his chest, where the horrific gunshot wound should have been. It was not there. In death, he guessed, there must be no pain. A world without pain. How laughably remarkable…

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I have desired this place for so long… But now, it does not seem to be the Eden that I have hoped for… yearned for…

Ravendor felt isolated from everything else, something telling him that there were no other signs of life around for hundreds and hundreds of miles. He was in a place certainly unreachable to all forms of life. His limbs felt heavy and tired, like he hadn't slept soundly or peacefully in years. The floor he was sitting on felt solid, but at the same time, silky like velvet or satin. It didn't feel like any earthly plane of existence.

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So this is death.

… Is this what death is like?

Ravendor shivered, drawing his knees up under his chin and then wrapping his wings around his body for extra warmth. It didn't help very much, but he felt a little better than before. Bowing his head, he tried to ignore the frigidness of death and focussed on warmer things, though he couldn't think of any at the moment. The temperature had dropped so rapidly in a few seconds that it was almost impossible, his heart felt like it was frozen into a block of ice. The feathers didn't help much in dispelling that inner frost, the cold that had risen in his own heart. Nothing external could save him from that.

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The others escaped… didn't they? I did… do the right thing… didn't I?

His mind felt like a sieve, and all the memories of his life were being drained away so that nothing tangible remained. It felt numbing, the erasure, but also a little soothing and pleasant. Was this the purpose of death? Ravendor didn't like to admit it, but he felt afraid. What would become of him now? Was he destined to Hell like all the other sinners of the world? He had always believed that death was like an eternal sleep, but now, though his body was tired, he was very much awake and in doubt of his original beliefs. Was he going to burn forever in crimson hellfire for his sins? But then, why did his body feel so cold?

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So cold…

Is this the answer…?

Is this what I was looking for…?

There was something small and metallic in his hand, attached to a thin chain. Upon realizing this, he squeezed it slightly, wondering what it was. The specter of his silver cross pulsed to warm life in his hands, like a holy light shining into his dark and isolated world. It was pure, magical, almost ethereal in it's structure, untouched by blight or a tarnishing curse. Ravendor had trouble remembering where it came from, somewhere important, somewhere special, from a very special person, a long time ago. He wracked his mind for an answer. It was important, it was his most precious possession. Wait. Hadn't he given it away only a little while ago? To who? To somebody…

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…Kaitlyn…

He felt his eyes start to burn from sadness and he didn't try to suppress the silent tears anymore, breathing steadily and crying quietly as his memories were gradually stolen away. Soon, he wouldn't even remember the reason for his crying in the first place. Unaware of this from his current predicament, Ravendor's wings were slowly changing colour from a deep dark black to something else, like a great big ink stain in reverse. It stung slightly, but he did not notice. Ravendor's hand tightened as his silver cross disintegrated into the darkness with a vapid sparkle, where he would never see it again. He wouldn't need it, anyway. Ravendor felt the darkness close all around him, suffocating him, trying to absorb him into it's eternal night, for an ever-lasting and never-ending sleep. He didn't care. He felt no reason why he should care. He deserved this punishment, anyway. But still, he couldn't help but hope and wish that things were different.

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… My Kaitlyn… _God, I miss her…_

Please… God… Bring her back…

It was a prayer.

He had prayed.

Something warm touched the soft outside of one of his half-stained wings and brushed it gently aside, the dark-haired man too tired to resist any kind of outer force right now. Carefully, tentatively, that same warmth touched the back of his hand, and Ravendor stiffened, hardly expecting anybody to touch him in the middle of the deep darkness, away from all trace of life. The touch felt heavenly and incredibly warm, sympathetic and close, like the touch of a loving mother, or a caring friend. Timidly, he raised his head and looked up at the owner of the warmth, his black fringe partially obscuring his jade-green eyes. All at once, Ravendor's heart suddenly froze in his chest, completely paralyzed. "No…" He said, bewildered. "No…"

Kaitlyn smiled at him, her pale azure eyes wistful and beautiful. She was beside him, close to him, a divine aura visibly emanating from her body with her pale hand over his. Her long golden-white hair had lengthened and trailed all the way down to her legs, in radiant waves, and she was dressed in a flowing white airy robe, like an angel, a true messenger of Heaven. She had aged a little, just enough to be equal to Ravendor's own age, in her late twenties or early thirties, and altogether, she emitted a kind of calm that was simply not earthly. She was, Seraph was now an angel, a _true_ angel. There was no denying it. She was there.

"Hello Ravendor." She said.

The dark-haired man was at a total loss for words, he was staring at her as if he had never seen anybody else before in his entire life. It felt like his heart had finally stopped beating, or that every part of his body had become petrified all at the same time, though his consciousness still seemed to be awake. He blinked a couple of times, just to see if his vision was correct. Was he hallucinating? "… Seraph… how… but I, … you were…" He stumbled terribly in his speech, for the first time unable to dredge up any words at all. He was completely tongue-tied. "Im… Impossible…" He finally managed to stutter, unable to look away, trembling a little in a mixture of fear and disbelief.

With utmost care, Kaitlyn took his hand and allowed Ravendor to sit up onto his knees, the stains on his wings spreading fast. His hands felt cold as ice, while she was so warm, filled with holy life. Softly, she pressed his hand against her cheek and closed her eyes. "My Ravendor…" She crooned softly. "I have been waiting here for you, for such a very long time. My soul has already moved on towards another life, a newer life, but this part of me, the part that you kept alive in your heart, this part stayed here to wait for you, to wait until you returned. I could not leave until I saw you one last time. I've missed you, my darling…"

"You were waiting… here… for me?" He asked her breathlessly, moving his arm down so that he could lightly grip her shoulder, not quite sure if she was there or not. She felt solid, tangible. No, this couldn't be true. Wasn't he alone? Had somebody been waiting for him, after all this time? Even after all the horrible crimes he had committed? Was that even _possible_? "You waited…" He repeated himself, trying to convince himself that he spoke the truth, "I thought I was all alone, but you waited…"

"Yes Ravendor." Kaitlyn replied in her soft and gentle voice. "I waited for you. In here." She placed her small pale hand over his heart, trying to show him a truth that he should have known all along. "As long as you loved me, you were never alone. I never left your side. We were always together, my love." Languidly, she reached her hand up and brushed a few strands of loose hair out of his face, still smiling. Then, she brushed his silent tears away. "You have cried silently throughout your entire life, haven't you, Ravendor? It is okay now. Everything is over. You do not have to hide your pain. You do not have to cry silently anymore."

Shedding a couple of soundless tears that rolled down his cheeks, he didn't even notice when the tattoos all over his body, part of his sinful past, slowly disappeared. He closed his eyes. "Kaitlyn, I have done some terrible things. I have killed so many people. I wish… I wish that I could be forgiven… but not even God can forgive me now. Nobody can save me… Nobody…" He bit his lip, trying to prevent himself from worsening his sadness. "I am not deserving of… your love." He whispered.

"Ravendor…" Kaitlyn whispered, leaning forward so that they were practically embracing each other. "The only person who can forgive you is the person you have sinned the most against. Clive has forgiven you, and you have forgiven Clive. If you think… that your inability to help me and Isabelle was your own fault, then that is your decision to make. But Ravendor, listen to me." Lowering her hand so that it gently brushed against his cheek, she bowed her head solemnly. "I forgive you." She said simply, and with warmth.

"You… forgive… me…?" Ravendor echoed, hardly able to talk.

That was all he needed to hear. Letting out a choked sob, Ravendor suddenly threw himself forward and grabbed Kaitlyn in a rough embrace, falling like a scared child into her lap with his arms around her middle. He started to cry audibly, thirty-three years of pent-up up emotion coming out all at once. The sobs took him and carried him just as they would; he had no power to stop or stay them. He could not moderate his grief, and at last found, with deep incoherent relief, that he had no urge to do so. All he had ever wanted was Kaitlyn and her forgiveness, and now he had at last received it. He was shaking with tears, but at the same time, he was also joyously happy, happier than he had ever been before in his entire life. She was right. Everything was now finally over. His pain was gone.

Kaitlyn tenderly stroked Ravendor's dark ebony hair as he cried, off-handedly glancing at his long feathered wings that had unfurled when he had moved. They were no longer stained, and they were no longer symbols of evil. "God's messengers are not born, they are chosen." Kaitlyn said softly, leaning down to kiss her deceased lover. "And one has to go through Hell… to find a home in Heaven."

They were now a pure snowy white, like the colour of a dove's wing.

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True angel wings.

And God had finally answered.


	88. Have You Told Your Beloved SAYONARA?

He didn't have to walk for very long before Clive found her, standing all alone on the arid canyon plains.

Clive paused several feet away from her, close enough to be able to talk without having to raise his voice, but having enough distance to make himself comfortable enough to speak with her in the first place. She was standing on a fairly large flat rock, big enough to be some sort of pedestal, with her back to him, her arms seeming to be loosely folded in front of her. Her could see her vibrantly coloured purplish-pink hair in the dim light of the extremely early morning, the sight familiar and very nostalgic to one half of his mind. "Luceid," He said, his tone calming and sincere, "I knew if I searched, I would find you here. Please turn around. I want to see your face."

"… Your search has been quick and easy compared to my own." She replied, her voice the same soft sweet one that Clive recognised having haunted his mind for the past few days, and as a common and precious part of Boomerang's fond memories. "I have searched for you for over two hundred spans of a human's life. Now is the night where I will finally meet you again. I am so nervous." She admitted, slowly turning around. The part of Clive's mind that used to belong to Boomerang seemed to smile. There she was. Luceid, the Guardian of desire. Exactly as he remembered her to be. To him, she was beyond description, but amazingly beautiful nevertheless.

Instinctively, reminding himself that he was in the immediate presence of a Guardian Lord herself, he knelt, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. "Not as nervous as I have been, Luceid. I swear that my stomach is filled with hyperactive butterflies at the moment." Luceid smiled and stepped off the rock, her movements so graceful and full of balance that she almost appeared to be moving outside of the framework of gravity and physics, like an elegant cat. Clive didn't move, even as she slowly walked towards him, and then knelt down herself to take a very close look at his face. Her bright red eyes were inquisitive and a little perplexed. Clive felt her gentle hands touch him, and he tensed as if he was awaiting some kind of violent action, so nervous that he was.

"I have never seen the great Boomerang Flash bow down to anybody before, except for the eternal Mother of all demonkind." She said, intrigued. "And now he will bow down to me, simple Luceid, the Guardian of all desire on Filgaia? Boomerang should know that he would need not to bow to me, because he is my dear one, my darling, my love. Rise Boomerang, your submissiveness is wasted here." And taking a hold of both of his shoulders, Luceid pulled him to his feet, far stronger than she outwardly appeared to be. Tilting his chin up so he could look directly at her, she smiled. "Now tell me what you have come here to say." She intoned. "Tell me what you have found immersed in the body of a human. Have you found what you have been looking for?"

"Your words in my mind have guided me to recognise what I truly hold dear in this reality, and now I have a reason to continue existing on Filgaia, one which I lacked in my previous life. Living as a human makes me feel… happy. I have found the 'hope' that I have been searching for. The human Clive Winslett that I fought within his own mind answered my two thousand year old riddle with ease." He said carefully, speaking with deliberation. "I have come to say… that I love you, Luceid, with all of Boomerang's heart. I could not voice it properly when I existed as him, for wont of foolish pride, but as a human living in humility, I can honestly say that I love you, then and now." She touched his cheek with her warm hands, and Clive closed his eyes. "However, I am married now," He continued, "I have a wife and a child. I love them dearly as well. So please understand… that despite my feelings… I cannot come with you, Luceid." As soon as he said this, Clive gently grasped her wrist and pulled her hand away.

Luceid stared at the rocky ground. "Yes, Catherine and Kaitlyn. I have seen them before. I can feel your desire to return to them, and I can feel their desire to stay with you. I sense every single desire of the world, and yet, it is always my own desires that must come last. That is what makes… the role of a Guardian Lord… so difficult at times…" She smiled sadly. "How envious I am of Catherine. She is so lucky to have somebody like you, Boomerang."

"If you can feel all desire on this planet, Luceid, then you must also sense how divided I am on this painful decision," Clive pointed out, "And how it wounds me deep inside to leave you alone like this after such a long time of waiting and searching. It is truly unfair. So, I have an idea." He let go of her hand and turned around, looking up at the starry sky. The stars were fading, though, and soon they would be gone, paving the way for a bright blue sky. The Hiades constellation was dimming as well. "Luceid, do you remember back during the war against the three human warriors?" He asked, "How we used to train for each and every upcoming battle? I miss those times when both pain and pleasure were one." He didn't have to look at her or wait for a reply to know that Luceid could remember. It had been their best spent time together.

"Well," Clive continued, lacing his fingers together and then turning his hands around and pushing outwardly, applying pressure to the base joints of his fingers, "This is my idea. We shall both duel each other, using the same forms and techniques utilized two thousand years ago in our training rituals. If I win, I shall return to Catherine and Kaitlyn and spend the rest of my human life-span with them. If I lose, I shall leave with you and remain by your side forevermore. What say you, Luceid? Are you up for a little wager? Of course," He added, "You will have to give me back Kuronegaiken, if it is in your power to do so. I need your blade in order to fight, my Gungnir ARM has both forsaken me and departed to rest in the cold unfeeling earth."

Luceid walked around him, now standing in front of him, her eyes calculating. "You will bet your soul on your swordplay, Boomerang?" She smiled. "That is a little bit of the Boomerang I used to know. Are you sure you are up to it?" She asked as she spread her arms, holding her hands out as if she was about to catch something falling out of the heavens. There was a small flash of light, and a pointy object speared the ground in silent fury, landing between her spread arms. Kuronegaiken had been summoned once more. The golden pommel glittered in the dim darkness as Luceid wound her hands around the leather grip and pulled it effortlessly out of the ground, the sword just as easy to wield for herself as much as it was for Boomerang. Running her finger over the sharpness of the blade, to test it's cutting power, she then passed it to the metal demon standing in front of her. "It has been two thousand years, you know."

"Two thousand years. It seems like such a long, but also, such a short time." Clive told her, accepting the blade and weighing it inquisitively in his hands. He turned on his heel and slashed experimentally at the air, pleased by the results. It seemed to work just as nicely as it did during his time in the cavernous ruins. "I fought the three human warriors again in this lifetime, and this time, I managed to win. I buried that niggling part of my past. I do not wish to bury you with that past, Luceid, but I do wish to be free from you, so I can live my human life to it's fullest content. So, if I must, I will fight you."

"Very well. I will agree to fight you, with all the power I can spare."

Clive caught a blur of movement and change in his peripheral vision, and when he turned back to look at the desire Guardian, Luceid had changed her shape, from a comely and seductive human woman to a huge grey she-wolf, the exact same beast Clive had slain a few days before. It was now alive again, and bristled with aggression, bright red eyes nearly glowing with power. Luceid stood with her four paws squared, tense enough to begin a battle. She also seemed ready to fight him, and if possible, defeat him. Clive welcomed this. If she had the strength within her to win, then he didn't deserve to go back to the others. Clive would accept his defeat with grace, and his victory with pride.

He got into a battle stance fit to duel a four-legged animal, leaning down a little so that the tip of his sword was pointing towards Luceid's face. His hands were an inch or so away from his navel, wrapped tightly around the grip of his blade. Clive's eyes were set hard, trying to watch Luceid for any upcoming movement. _I have to win, for Catherine's sake…_ He told himself in his mind, and drew an inner peace from within himself by picturing what everything would be like once things got back to normal. Clive tried to keep his breathing to a minimum, knowing that deep breaths would cause his hands to shake, making his grip on the weapon tremble just a little. He couldn't allow for a break in his defense, no, not this time.

As soon as Luceid began to charge, Clive also began his head-on sprint towards the snarling she-wolf, his sword arm out in front of his body in such a way that the blue blade of Kuronegaiken was across his chest in both a defensive position and a preparation for a powerful swing. The muscles in his legs protested to the new wave of strain being placed upon them, still a little stiff and sore. Clive closed his eyes and tried to force all the unwanted thoughts out of his mind, attempting to focus on the duel and nothing else. His visual perception of the world seemed to narrow a little at this, giving him a direction, a target, and a goal. He knew that it was utterly pointless to struggle against the will of a Guardian Lord, but hell, he was willing to try.

Luceid's paws thudded against the rocky sandy ground in a dark-grey blur, the wolf's gleaming white teeth and sharp incisors illuminated by the pure silver moonlight. Letting out a deep growling bark, Luceid sprung at Clive with fangs and claws bared, holding nothing back for this duel for Clive's freedom. She had waited for so long to have her beloved Boomerang back, and she would fight for him, if that was what she had to do. Her powers and abilities were limited from having to duel in such a weak form compared to her other, more dangerous forms, but this was the shape that had been chosen, and it would be the shape she would either win or lose in. Yes, in this shape, there _was_ a possibility that she could lose.

Clive swung hard in the strike he was preparing as soon as he felt Luceid's paws touch his stomach and her large powerful jaws lunge for his face. Before the blade of the sword could touch her, however, he shifted his grip a little and turned Kuronegaiken just enough so that the flat part of the blade struck her in the side and knocked her bluntly away. Luceid yelped in surprise as one of her ribs cracked from the pressure and she landed on her back in the dirt and dust, skidding a little from the brute force of the attack. He had moved so fast, she didn't have any time to retaliate.

And the match was instantly over, Clive final sword swing ending short, the very tip of the blade only a centimeter or so away from Luceid's throat. The Guardian had shifted back to her human form as soon as she had recognised her own defeat, lying on the ground in a half sitting-up position, her purplish pink hair strewn all over her face, obscuring one of her crimson red eyes. The other was watching him intently, while she took deep heaving breaths, trying to gather her lost wind back into her body. Clive couldn't deny the fact that Luceid looked absolutely stunning in this way, beautiful beyond words, simply dazzling. It was all Clive could do to prevent himself from doing something incredibly obscene to her, there and then. He managed to maintain his calm, though, and solved his problem by closing his eyes and trying to think of something else. It was quite difficult for him, especially the part of him that had originated from Boomerang's psyche.

"Well, that was rather simple. You are losing your touch, my dear." He said a little cheekily, though he did not feel in the mood for jokes at all. That had been far too simple. "Luceid, what do you call a desire that is turned against itself? A desire to be freed from a similar desire?" Clive asked of her, his sword arm straight and unwavering, as steady as a rock. He found it suitably ironic that Luceid could be so easily cowed by something that was no more than an extension of herself, or maybe, that something wielded by the soul of another was the only thing that she was considerably vulnerable against. Clive knew that although Kuronegaiken was a part of Luceid and a part of the desire medium; the Lust Jaw, it was _also_ a central and most vital part of his being, and in effect, he was also a part of the desire Guardian herself. Clive tightened his hand around the sword's leather grip, awaiting an answer.

Feeling small stones and sand biting into the soft skin of her elbows and lower arms, Luceid's gaze ran up the long and cold blade of the sword, slowly and deliberately until she stopped at Clive face, his brownish-red eyes hard and commanding. Because of the coldness of the canyon in the incredibly early morning, his breath was visible in the open air, manifesting itself as a small cloud of steam hanging around his face whenever he exhaled a breath. Luceid knew that Boomerang had managed to change himself into a human, and in this new form and life, he had changed so much, and yet so little. It made her heart race like a steam train to see him look at her again with those same, determination-filled eyes. "Boomerang…" She whispered softly, "A desire turned against another desire is no longer a viable desire. It is different, inverted against an equally strong need. Choice, the answer is choice, the choice to decide whether the desire is worth the sacrifice."

"Indeed," Clive replied, lowering his weapon and planting it in the ground nearby, "And seeing that I have beaten desire _using_ desire, I am free to make my own choice." He extended his hand out to her, leaning down a little in an offer to help her to her feet. She graciously took it and stood up with his aid, all her bruises having disappeared when she had switched her form back into her human one. Her balance on two legs was a little off and she swayed into Clive's embrace, wrapping her arms about his middle and resting her cheek against his chest. The movement was natural for Clive and he instinctively put his arms around her too. "Listen," He added, holding her closely, "I _do_ love you. I have _never_ stopped loving you, and I _will_ never stop loving you. You are Boomerang's most beloved, Luceid."

This made Luceid smile and she hugged him a litter tighter when she heard this, closing her ruby red eyes. Then, Clive unexpectedly pulled away. "But…" He continued in a soft quiet tone, reaching up to gently grasp Luceid's upper arms and looking down at her. "I am not just Boomerang Flash anymore. My name is Clive Winslett. I do not want to return to that demon life, and though I do love you, Luceid, I love my wife Catherine as well, as equally as I love you. I also wish to remain with my daughter, I want to see her live and grow up happily. My life as Clive Winslett is far too important to me for me to give up for anything else. I choose them, not you." He said.

"I know." Luceid replied, her voice no more than a whisper. "I know that is how you feel, I just did not want to accept it." Clive's chest had felt furry when she had been leaning against it, and she could see that the lycan curse had affected him bodily, as well as mentally. She could also see his bushy tail, hiding a little behind one of his legs. The Guardian bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Boomerang. I cursed you. I had no choice but to curse you, it was the only way I could force your memories back into your mind. I wanted you back so badly, and I knew that only a demon could destroy another demon. I thought I was doing the right thing, but, you suffered terribly because of it. I am so sorry…"

"You have no need to apologise, Luceid." Clive assured her soothingly. "Without your aid, none of us would have survived. Ravendor would have destroyed every human alive, and I would have been powerless to stop him. You showed me what was hidden in my heart of hearts, and you helped me to understand exactly what was most important to me. I am in your debt, and if a little fur is all I have to pay for this, then I will gladly pay it. It is a worthy sacrifice. You saved me. You saved us all. Thank you so very much."

As Clive knelt once more, Luceid gently placed her small, but warm hands on either sides of Clive's head, trailing them down a little so that her fingertips rested over both his temples, his body cold and very icy. She could feel that he had an exceedingly quiet pulse, even though he was a dangerous and unnatural demon, he was still a living thing. Luceid carefully ran her fingers through his grass-green hair, remembering a time when Boomerang's hair had been as black as pitch and his skin the shade of dark brown sugar. He had certainly changed so much since he had been the hunter of demon, Guardians and humans alike, she thought. If Luceid had seen him only casually, she would have never thought him to be Boomerang at all. It had been the taste of his blood that had shown her the truth. "Please Clive," This was the very first time she had called him his new name to his face, her voice thick with suppressed tears, "I told you before. You do not have to kneel before me. Sometimes… Gods hate it when mortals act subservient to them, especially the ones that the gods do love."

Smiling, Clive obeyed her request, standing up to his full height. "I will return to you, Luceid. I promise. I am a demon now, and the span of a demon's life is not determined by the passage of time. I can live forever, if I wish. I will stay alive for you, and when Catherine and Kaitlyn pass away into peaceful death, when my human life-span is over, it will be I who will come looking for _you_. Then I shall fulfill my role as the partner of the Guardian of desire. Until then, this is goodbye." Clive reached out and liberated Kuronegaiken from the ground, slotting it back into it's place on his belt and then bowing in a manner that was both respectful and almost regal. Rubbing his wounded shoulder a little, Clive looked up into the sky again and took note of the location of the Hiades constellation, shining brightly and more beautifully than he had ever witnessed before. It was a perfect time now, the hour before the dawn, the time of peaceful reconciliation. For Clive, it finally felt like something important was coming to an end. Lowering his gaze, he began to walk away, back towards the campsite.

"Wait!"

He paused in mid-step, freezing when he heard Luceid call out for him. Turning around hesitantly, he watched Luceid run up to him in a hurry, halting just a foot or so away from him. Glancing up, the desire Guardian smiled faintly, holding out her hands a little as if there was something invisible residing in them. "One last thing." She said delicately. "A gift for your daughter, and a few words for you, my love." Luceid's fingers seemed to curl around the unseen object and then something in the fabric of reality changed so quickly that it was almost impossible to trace. Then the metal demon saw that Luceid was holding his old Gungnir ARM in her hands, the weapon salvaged from the collapsed cavern by unknown methods. It looked like just like it had been before it fell down the widening chasm caused by Diablo, battered and worn. It was fixable, it could be mended with time, and Clive felt somehow relieved to see it again.

Clive carefully took the weapon from her hands and unraveled the leather strap attached to it's side, slinging it over his unhurt shoulder. Once it was repaired, he would put it away for Kaitlyn until she was ready to handle it properly. A part of him hoped that that day would never come. Luceid raised her hand and gently drew her index finger down his cheek and neck, until she at last reached the hollow of his throat. Clive had a scar near his Adam's apple, where he had almost been choked to death by a piece of deadly black metal. Luceid dropped her gaze and sighed. "And these words that I am about to tell you, Clive Flash, or maybe Boomerang Winslett, are something that I want you to never forget. Your wife Catherine, and your daughter Kaitlyn, your friends and loved ones, if you truly care for them, then promise me that you will cling to them with all your strength. Do not let them go. Do not lose them like you lost me."

You let me win, didn't you? You knew I would be happiest most, back with my friends and family…

The swordsman nodded. "I will protect them with all my power. Goodbye, Luceid. I love you." And he leant down, lacing his fingers with hers and kissed her tenderly, sliding one arm behind her back for her support. It took Luceid a few seconds to realise what was happening to her and her legs practically turned to water, leaning back against Clive's arm. It had been two thousand years since Boomerang had kissed her so, and tears began to bead in her deep crimson eyes, the Guardian finding herself crying so desperately for the first time in her immortal life. When Clive at last pulled away, he smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder, before realizing a startling fact. His hands felt warm. His body felt warm. The coldness of his being had thawed away in the last hour of the night. Such a life had been returned to his body. How…?

"Filgaia has accepted you as one of her own, Clive." Luceid told him. "You are one of her dear adopted children, just like the one you have recently lain to rest. God is a lot more tolerant, and a lot more loving than a mortal can ever believe. In the end, as long as you can find the cause of your guilt and regret it, then all of you are bound towards Heaven. Such as this, there is no Hell that can be spoken of outside of your own mind. The Executioner has hung up his genocidal blade." Clive nodded again, contentment and relief building up inside his heart. Luceid clasped both her hands out front of her body and bowed, a tear running down her cheek. "Farewell."

Long good-byes were always the hardest to cope with, so Clive just turned, walking away again. He did not look back. He was heading towards the future now, to a place where the people he loved the most were waiting for him to return, while making total peace with his past. This had been what he had always wanted, nothing else. He didn't mind the mutation, he didn't mind the pain. It was worth it to know that things could finally be at rest. Luceid watched him leave with joyful tears in her eyes, it made her happy to know that her Boomerang had found what he had been seeking for all his existence; an answer to his loneliness. The Guardian knew that she would continue to miss him, but as long as he was happy, she didn't care.

The sun rose, the night giving birth to a new and glorious morning.

It'd be another lifetime before Luceid would ever see him again.


	89. Interlude II: Peace Maker

****

Interlude II - Peace Maker

xxx

The very next day, without bothering to take a rest, Clive Winslett visited the obscure mining town of Little Rock, fulfilling his last obligation.

Annette ducked under her workbench for a few moments to pull up a handful of ARM maintenance tools that had been lurking around in some drawers underneath the counter, slightly dirty from overuse. Getting back up and placing them carefully onto one side of the bench, allowing herself some room to work in just in case a customer decided to turn up, the girl pulled on a pair of thin gloves that smelt a little of ARM cleansing fluids, intent on cleaning her dirty utensils. They were coated in grime and dried oil from past use, which simply wouldn't do at the moment. Annette liked to keep her tools clean. Flicking her long light-brown braid over her shoulder and adjusting her glasses, she got to work.

Clive was standing outside of the ARM repair shop with his hands in his coat pockets, staring at the small rectangular entrance door. He had gone inside for repairs a few times in his life, but this was the first time that it made him feel all jittery and apprehensive on the inside. He didn't even know yet what he was going to say to her. Closing his eyes for a second, silently conjuring up inner strength, Clive put his hand on the door and pushed it open, the small squeaking sound of rusty hinges meeting his ears. The building itself was chiseled straight out of the cliff-side, probably out of an unused part of the mine. Inside, however, it looked just like an ARM shop should, small bits of machinery everywhere with the token scent of grease in the air. The place was small, but somehow cozy and warm.

When the door was opened a little silver bell suspended from the ceiling rung as a chain reaction, alerting Annette to a new customer. The girl glanced up from her work and smiled, her light azure eyes affable and friendly. Clive noticed, now that he knew all about what had happened, that they looked a lot like the late Kaitlyn's eyes as well. "Mr. Winslett!" Annette exclaimed brightly, putting down what she was doing. "Welcome to my little alcove. Can I help you with anything?" Setting her eyes upon his beat-up ARM that was slung over his right shoulder, she took note of all the dents and nicks along the weapon. It looked very difficult to fix.

Silently, Clive walked up to her workbench and looked down at her half-cleaned equipment, her gloved hands grubby from the labor. He had always reckoned that Annette must have been a little genius to own her own store at her young age, but now he could guess perhaps where that genius had been inherited from. The green-haired man smiled kindly, nodding. "There is something very important that I need to talk to you about, Annette. A delicate subject. About your father." He reached into an inner pocket of his red coat and pulled out a small pistol ARM, made of dark black metal with a silver outlining. It was a very beautiful weapon. "This is for you." Clive said, setting the weapon down on the bench and pushing it towards her.

Annette raised an eyebrow in question. "Excuse me?" She asked. "I don't have a father, not a _real_ father, anyway. I was adopted. I have no idea what you're talking about." A little confused, the girl removed her dirty gloves and picked up the ARM and opened up the revolving chambers, pulling out only one bullet from an almost empty clip. The weapon seemed compliant to her spirit as well, as if it had been forged for her usage. "This is a Peacemaker Frontier Mod 73. It looks like it's been kept in near-perfect condition. I didn't think they made these things anymore. Where did you get this?"

Clive shook his head. "It does not belong to me. It belongs to you now. Part of your father's spirit is sealed in the weapon, can you not feel it?" Annette slowly snapped the chamber back into place, narrowing her eyes a little. Whatever Clive was talking about, it was utter nonsense. The green-haired man dropped his smile. "I am so very sorry for barging into your life like this, Annette, but I feel it is my duty to tell you these things that your father is unable to do so himself. He was my brother, and so I suppose that makes me your uncle. I know you were adopted and probably felt abandoned by him, but please understand that your father loved you very much, even if he never got a chance to see you himself. He died last night in order to save the lives of myself and my family. His death may not have been painless, but it may comfort you to know that he passed away without any regret."

The young ARMsmith had an urge to openly scoff at this, unable to believe it. Even if she _did_ have a father all this time, he must have been a sleazy underhanded bastard to leave her alone like this for all these years. He probably didn't even care. Annette had always been told that her mother had died shortly after her birth, and that her father was somebody she was better off not knowing about. Gently, she traced the tip of one finger down the silver lining on the weapon, then got a sharp jolt from the spirit inside the weapon, reacting to her negative thoughts. She knew all about the theory that part of a person's soul was always imprinted upon an object of great value to them, and for the first time, Annette was believing it. It felt funny, almost frightening, but the spirit imprint seemed almost familiar to her. "Daddy…" The girl bit her lip, gripping the weapon a little harder than usual. "…Who was he?" She asked, sitting down on her work stool, her previous work forgotten.

Clive, likewise, also sat down on a nearby chair, removing Gungnir from it's leather strap and leaning it up against the wall. Looking up at the ceiling, he searched his heart for his next few words, trying to speak honestly and earnestly. Nostalgia overtook him and he smiled wistfully, recalling the past, but also feeling saddened by it. Clive took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the fabric of his coat, and then closed his eyes.

"He was many things. Some of them were good, and some of them were bad. But most of all, he was… human."


	90. Epilogue

"…Later, after I had explained to Annette as much of the truth as I possibly could without clouding the issue with demons and prophets and such, I returned to Humphrey's Peak a few hours before noon and walked back here, where I stumbled into our bedroom and then fell into a completely dreamless sleep that lasted over two whole days, until this afternoon when I overheard the idea to send Virginia and the others on a small trip to Little Rock with Kaitlyn in tow. I hope that they are capable of taking care of her, especially considering Jet is still not fully mobile, with his broken leg and all. I still cannot believe it was only a week ago that I went with the others to destroy that destructive beast in the forest. It seems like it occurred almost a million years ago. That only a week ago… I was completely and totally human, that I was ignorant of my true identity."

The afternoon had waned into night, although the couple snuggled closely to each other barely noticed its silent approach. The Winslett household was cold in it's emptiness, except for the main room, where a few lit candles offered illumination in the darkness. Almost childishly, Clive had found himself resting on Catherine's lap, stretched across the couch in a relaxed position. Clive thought this suitably ironic, as this was similar to the way a dog would lay on their master's legs, but in truth, he was simply too exhausted to care. His tail was curled protectively around her leg, as if to make sure that she would not leave him alone anytime soon, the white tip swaying a little in thought. Smiling, Catherine stroked his dark-green hair softly. "This is all I can remember. There may be more, I am not sure, but the truth will always be that I have been unalterably changed into a being far different, and perhaps, far wiser than my original self." Clive said, finally finishing his long and tragic tale.

"It is quite a story," She crooned, "Had I not been an integral part of it I would find it very difficult to believe." They had gone through so much, in so short a time. Who could ever have guessed that the chains of the past extended so far? Even over lifetimes? And Clive, he had gone from human, to demon, to monster, to a mixture of all three in a procedure that had almost degenerated his soul, and yet here he was, home and lying so close to her body. Safe. It felt so wonderful to know that whenever she lovingly touched him, he would be warm instead of deathly cold, the frost had gone, purged from his heart, never to return.

Thrown over a chair placed next to the couch was his practically decimated trench coat, dirtied from blood and filth with tears in the left shoulder from the fateful animal bite that had started this whole complicated mess in the first place. Slash marks, rips and a countless amount of stains, the fabric was totally ruined and she knew she was incapable of fixing it, no skilled tailor ever could. That didn't matter, though. Clive had changed his clothes a while ago, no longer clad in his usual drifting gear, he wore only a thin grey shirt and dark trousers, his civilian clothing when he was not working or on any kind of drifting business. It hid the bandages well, as the wounds across his body had yet to fully heal.

Absently, Catherine thought of her daughter out there in the wastelands and how much more capable she had turned out to be when fate had tied her to its fickle and mercurial will. Even at such a young and childish age, Kaitlyn had shown traits that even some of the adult drifters in the wasteland lacked, lateral and resourceful thinking. She could not lie to herself about it, Kaitlyn would make a fine drifter someday, one that would make both Clive and herself proud. Catherine looked at the Gungnir ARM leaning carefully near the door, the weapon battered like an old piece of discarded metal. It was need some serious repairs soon. She supposed it was a family weapon now, as everybody was able to synchronize with it. Everybody, that is, except for Clive, it's former possessor.

Now he had that unusual and beautiful sword, a cold and thin blade that seemed to come to life when held by her husband, in anybody else's hands, it became as dull as a butter knife. She had seen him slash through solid stone and ancient metal without resistance, the weapon was so deadly that it was almost scary. But now all it did was lean quietly in one corner of the living room, next to the bookshelf, gleaming a cold brilliance from the polishing Clive had recently given it. Kuronegaiken, the embodiment of the desire Guardian. Her husband had renounced his sniper title, for he was one no longer, promoting himself to a new class and specialty, a swordsman. She supposed it meant that his days as a gunner were finally over, and wondered absently if Clive would ever look back on those times and miss them as fiercely as she did.

Clive seemed to read her mind. He pushed himself back up into a sitting position, next to Catherine. He smiled an unfocussed smile. "Gungnir no longer has a use for me, and I understand why it is so. It has adapted to a new master, though it fills me with dread." The image of Kaitlyn holding the rifle, small arms struggling from the weight flashed through his mind, and Clive involuntarily shivered. He had seen enough of children at war in his childhood, he never wanted to see it all over again. But still, had had an obligation he needed to eventually keep. "I may have to teach her, If she wants to learn. I cannot let a talent like that just go to waste." Though personally, the thought of Kaitlyn ever holding a weapon again made Clive mildly ill. If she could shoot like that with no prior experience, how accurate would she be, if adequately trained? He didn't want to think about it, nor anything else, at the moment.

A long pause, then finally more words. "Catherine?" Behind his glasses, his dark brown eyes connected with her grey ones, easily displaying every emotion that passed through his troubled mind. They showed relief, regret, exhaustion, and most importantly of all, love. Clive's eyes suited him, the strange mahogany hue, but glimpsing for a second, if she looked really hard, Catherine could sometimes see flecks of ruby red within the iris, contrasting together harmoniously. When they were blue, most of the time they held something like a sheet of frost over his emotions, burying and hiding from the world all the darker aspects of himself, things he didn't want anybody else to see. That dark side had festered in his heart and was finally forced out of him, the result, a pair of deep red scars over both his wrists, unable to be completely regenerated. It was a scar that would stick with him until his dying day.

"Hmm?" She leaned into Clive's uninjured shoulder, feeling him move his arm around her back, resting his hand against her hip. There were other things about him that had changed, unnoticeable by most people, and probably only observed by Catherine herself. Clive smelt different, not in a bad way, but something in that area had changed, she couldn't place it, he smelt sort of musky, though Clive still continued to be his old mild self, the same man she had fallen in love with, all those years ago. Catherine could now truly appreciate exactly how much Clive meant to her now, after the bone-chilling threat of having him lost forever. He had almost destroyed himself in his guilt, but had barely, just barely been able to cling to that tiny, flimsy little thread of hope. That hope had been herself and Kaitlyn, the hope that their lives could be spared.

"Thank you." The swordsman whispered sincerely. Catherine raised an eyebrow, why was Clive thanking her? "You and Kaitlyn, you saved my life. I could have died, I _wanted_ to die, but you would not let me go, just as I wouldn't let Ravendor go." Looking back on that time with the new insights he had gained from the past week, Clive suddenly found himself understanding a little more of Ravendor's soul than he had ever thought possible. The wish for death, the urge to die, it could be overpowering, clouding the most sensible of men's judgement. He shook his head slightly, trying to comprehend all the horrible things that had happened, the ones that he himself had triggered. It was simply too much. Clive removed his glasses, his spare pair that he usually kept at home, folding them up in his free hand. "I would be nothing more than a rabid murdering beast if you had not intervened. You saved my life, my humanity, _and_ my soul. I owe you more than I could ever repay."

Catherine smiled lovingly, the feel of the thin material of Clive's shirt pressed against her cheek. Gently, she removed the pair of glasses that Clive had been holding and played with the frame, smiling as she did so. "You do not owe me anything, Clive. All debts are nullified after day you married me, do not forget it." Turning to face him, she looked into his eyes and her smile became even kinder. "Besides," She added, "If the same thing had happened to me, I do not doubt that you would have acted precisely as I did, and you would tell me the exact same words that I have spoken just now."

Clive chuckled, it was the first time he had shown any mirth in days. "I can never argue with your logic, Catherine. Well, if so, then promise me one thing." The Lust Jaw was still on the table, the warm glow of a lamplight setting off its golden sheen. Clive picked up the object and turned it over in his hands, Luceid's signet held a much deeper influence on him than he had previously thought possible. He could only begin to wonder what would happen to him during the next full moon. "If I ever start acting unusually, like chasing the cat around the house or howling at night, could you please take my ARM and shoot me with it?" He asked with the faintest tinge of humor, the beginnings of a lopsided smirk appearing on his face.

Catherine could not help but find herself giggling at this, patting him on the back. "No, I will just hit you with a rolled-up newspaper and chain you up in the backyard until you learn to behave better." She joked, glad to see that Clive's mood had uplifted somewhat. It was so much better than his melancholic mood which he had sustained for so very long. Clive winced at the threat, pretending to be afraid and crossing both his arms over his face, like he expected to be showered with gunfire, then he made a whining noise that was surprisingly close to a frightened or guilty dog.

"That is a little cruel, don't you think?" The sniper-turned-swordsman lamented with fraudulent unhappiness, sinking down into the couch. It was much softer and comfortable than he had remembered it to be. Comforting, like Catherine. It felt better than good to be able to just relax and not worry about anything, he trusted Virginia and the others without reservation and sighed deeply at being able let his mind be at ease. If Catherine threatening him was all he had to fear, then he would just sit here and remain damn well scared of her.

The ex-drifter giggled and picked up the small mass of papers on the coffee table, yesterday's newspaper. Rolling it up into a crude tightly-wound funnel, she tapped Clive lightly on the head with it, like the newspaper was some kind of magical wand "Perhaps," Catherine replied to his protest, "But you knew I was a cruel person when you married me." Clive cracked a smile and swiftly disarmed the newspaper from Catherine's clutches with a deft movement of his hand, then gently placed both the paper and his pair of glasses down on the table, one on top of the other. Catherine folded her hands in her lap, now that they had nothing left to do. "So, do you feel better now?" She asked contentedly.

Clive smiled, but it was a smile that masked yet even more pain, it could not be helped that it still hurt, but the pain was receding, bit by bit. Tonight, the mental healing process had finally begun, and Clive welcomed it heartily. "More than I ever felt possible." He answered, standing up and taking shaky steps over to the windowsill. His legs hurt all over from the incredible strain they had undertaken in the last few battles, and he was still adjusting to moving around with an extra limb to balance himself out, so his walk was precarious. Not to mention how stiff and sore all his muscles felt, he had bruises in places he didn't even want to think about. "Thank you for listening." Clive rubbed his shoulder a little, hoping that the wound would soon disappear. It had been knitting itself together well, it would be gone within a week or so, he reckoned. Catherine noticed that he was agitating his wound a little in this motion and she stood up and moved around the coffee table to stand behind her husband.

Placing her hand on Clive's elbow, she applied a little pressure and coaxed him to turn around, then reaching up and beginning to undo the buttons on her husband's light grey shirt. Clive let her do this without resistance and soon the white bandages came into view, smelling of antiseptic fluid and medicinal herbs. Catherine had changed them yesterday when Clive had been sleeping and unaware, but now they were dirty from use and needed to be replaced. Procuring a new roll of bandages from her apron pocket, she removed the small metal clasp that was pinning the end of the bandage down and gently began to unravel it, making sure to touch Clive's wounded flesh as little as possible. The metal demon tilted his head to one side and glanced away when his bound injury touched the open air once more, the wound still premature in it's healing stage. Clive knew that this had to be done in order for it to repair itself without infection, but it still stung a bit and made him bite his bottom lip as a reaction.

While Catherine was doing this, the swordsman's gaze fell to the floor, studying it carefully before eventually flicking up with interest on something resting on the coffee table, previously unnoticed. It was a letter, small and thin and cheap-looking, unlike the other distinguished ransom note that they had received a few days ago. "What is this?" He asked, his fingers itching to pick up the envelope and discover it's reason for being there. It filled him with a little bit of curiosity, and also apprehension. It looked simple and was made of a relatively cheap material, a tiny square stamp stuck into one corner, an illustration of a giant gold nugget next to the price of the stamp, two gella coins. The address scribbled on the back meant it came from Little Rock, though Clive was positive that he didn't know anybody living in that town asides from Annette. Actually, it made him very curious, overlooking the fact that the words; _'Winslett Family'_, was spelt wrong on the front. Knowing this, the letter couldn't _possibly_ be from Annette. Besides, he had seen her only a few days ago.

"Oh," Said Catherine, almost finished with the bandages, "It came early this morning. I did not have the time to open it." She held her thumb to the small end of the bandage, and used her other one to pin it in place, the pin beforehand held between her teeth, like a seamstress working on a hem while trying to hold onto plenty of pins at the same time. There, she was finished. The new dressing looked as tight as the last one, and Clive didn't seem to be complaining or cringing over it, so she assumed that it was okay. Now she leant down a little to button up Clive's shirt again, but the metal demon moved back over to the coffee table, picking up the small letter resting there.

The drifter stood there motionless for a short amount of time, his breath deepening, face slowly going grim. He turned his head slightly, as if he had perceived something nobody else could see. "It smells like Dario." He said warily, looking at the letter with distrust. Despite his suspicion, he tore the envelope open, pulling out a single sheet of paper, an almost illegible scrawl running across the paper. Clive read the writing carefully, pausing every few words to figure out what they meant, many of them were spelt incorrectly. Catherine peered over his shoulder but found herself quite unable to decode the messy text, seeing nothing but random gibberish.

"What does it say?" She asked worriedly, twisting the discarded dirty bandages nervously in her hands. Clive lowered the note, finishing reading whatever it had to offer him. He didn't look upset, which made Catherine's heart feel a lot better, but he did look surprised, almost, and slightly unbelieving of something she didn't yet know about. "Honey, what does it say?" She repeated, wanting to know the letter's contents.

Clive folded the paper up with disbelief, slotting it back into the envelope. Looking down at it, he chuckled a little. "It is a written apology from Dario in regards to Kaitlyn's kidnapping. He informs us that the events of the other night strongly affected him and he is attempting a career change. He is," He told Catherine with incredulity, levelly meeting her gaze with a smile, "Taking over Roykman's role as an item merchant. He assures us that he will never bother us again." Clive dropped the note back on the table, resuming his position at the window left open by Jet some hours before, folding his arms in his newly acquired Boomerang-ish manner. The wind outside the house was blowing gently, bringing with it brisk autumn breezes. Clive could almost sense the last lingering traces of dying summer warmth within them, the seasons preparing to make that great big leap into a chilly Filgaian winter.

"I think he may be scared of you." Catherine said, standing by him and looking outside as well. They could see the stars from here, and they were at the height of their ethereal beauty tonight. The ex-drifter felt the cold as well, trying to dispel it by leaning into her husband's side. Golden-brown leaves were dropping in the silence of the night, the trees that bore them becoming pallid skeletons as the season wasted away. Many people would find this sad and a little mortifying, but to Catherine, it was strangely beautiful. It signified needed change, a change that would allow the world to be reborn anew again, when spring would come their way. Catherine couldn't wait to see it again, and spend it with her husband and daughter.

"Can you truly blame him?" Clive answered, sighing a little in faint regret. "In all honesty, if I were in his shoes, I would be just as frightened as him if _he_ were me. I do not quite look so human anymore, so I suppose I should soon have to get used to reactions such as his. I can assure you that I feel no less of a man or a human being than I did before I became like this, and I feel no shame in being what I am. I do not intend to become an agoraphobic, I will continue my drifting journey with Virginia and the others regardless of what other people choose to think. And," He glanced at Catherine with a satisfied glint in his eye, "Whenever I come back home to you and Kaitlyn, you will find that I am still the same person I have always been."

Catherine grasped the frame of the window-covering and pulled it down, closing the window with a slight squeaking as it slid down the built-in grooves down both sides above the windowsill. The cold breeze was shut out, and now the room felt a little warmer than it was before. Catherine turned around and leant against the sill, her grey eyes like a faded winter morning. Her gaze swept up Clive's body, his shirt was still open and she could see his partially fur-covered chest underneath. Clive was definitely not a particularly muscle-bound individual, but he had been exceedingly agile in his youth and his body had built up strength by wielding the heavy Gungnir in battles for years and years on end. He had always been handsome in a subdued gentlemanly way, but now, he was more… wild. More untamed than before. It was actually quite arousing.

Clive seemed to get the message easily enough. Stepping forward, he gently grabbed Catherine and pressed her against the closed window, both his hands enclosed around her wrists and pinned slightly above her head. He kissed her then, gently, at first, but then a little more forcefully and deeply, one of his hands sliding down to rest possessively at the side of her waist. She began to respond to the kiss then, but found herself having to break away, starting to giggle as if she was being tickled by something. "Clive… Stop it, you're tickling me." She said between giggles, pulling away a little bit more. Clive's tail had been brushing up against her leg almost rhythmically and it was making the woman laugh as a response.

"Sorry." Clive apologized with a smile. "I cannot help it. It does that whenever I am happy, I'm afraid." Forcing himself to be still, he flicked his tail out of the way and leant down again, but then paused. His face only a few inches away from Catherine's own. "I love you, Catherine." He said softly, his arms moving around her to rest against her back as he kissed her once more, only tentatively, before moving down and kissing the side of her neck, his left hand toying a little with Catherine's bra strap that he could feel from underneath the fabric of her dress. She flinched slightly when one of Clive's elongated fangs lightly nipped the side of her neck, not painfully, but enough the break the skin and cause a tiny trickle of blood to flow. She absently wondered now if this would turn her into a lycanthrope or not, even though Clive had been cured of the curse. It was a silly thought, but entertaining nonetheless.

The swordsman was beginning to lick up the spilt blood in a mildly canine manner, his mahogany-red eyes lidded with lust. Catherine closed her eyes, letting out a small moan. Clive's hand had found the buttons on the back of her dress and had deftly undone them, sliding his hand inside. A second or so later her bra was unlatched and he paused what he was doing with his mouth to smile almost mischievously, unlike the present Clive of today. Catherine couldn't remember if Clive had ever been so straightforward with her before. It must be the full moon, she thought. "Gods…" She said, her mind a tumult of a million thoughts and emotions, "What on Filgaia have I married?"

The metal demon heard her speak and then let go, taking a step back and bowing gracefully in front of her. "I am a disciple of the desire Guardian, Catherine." He told her, regarding her levelly and evenly. "And desire can take on many, _many_ forms. I happen to enjoy this one very much. May I escort my fair lady to the bedroom, please?" Smiling lopsidedly, he gestured vaguely to their room, not too far away. Clive wondered if he could wait that long as he picked up his shredded red coat that was lying over the head of a nearby chair and tossed it into the corner of the room, the leather garment landing on top of Kuronegaiken and covering it completely, lying serenely all by itself. Clive blinked at a sudden thought, then voiced it out loud. "I just realised," He said roguishly, "That we have the entire weekend to ourselves."

Catherine took his hand and smiled. "You animal…" She said with a giggle, and then closed the curtains for the night.


	91. FINALE: Free Bird

(A/N: Because of this site's new rule that long author notes are no longer allowed to be posted as singular chapters, you may find the credits, author rantings, dedications and an english translation of the Free Bird song on my website, in the WA3 fanfiction section. Thank you so much for your time. I appreciate it.)

**FINALE - Free Bird**

= = = = = =

kuon no shijima yagate sora ni  
aoku aoku tokete nijinde  
mahiru no tsuki no usui kage wa  
sugu ni sugu ni mirai wo yobu

daichi no ibuki ni  
tsutsumaretara doko e namida kaeru no  
kizutsuite mo inochi wa  
yasashiku tsuyoku naru yo

mugen no inori sasagenagara  
ima wo ima wo shizuka ni tojite  
kikoeru neiro mori no kanata  
hayaku hayaku koe ni kaete

sekai no subete ni  
yurusaretara ai no imi wakatta no  
namidatsu hi no kumo kara  
hikari ga fui ni mieta

= = = = = =

Miles away, underneath the wasteland sky, Kaitlyn pulled Gallows's coarse brown blanket over her small body and tried to get to sleep, continuing to find herself counting every little star that graced the night sky draped above her. Looking over the distant beauty of the faded Hyades constellation, she knew she was tired, more exhausted than she had ever felt in her life. They had been hiking at a steady, if not slow pace for the sake of Kaitlyn's health, but the long journey the girl had undertaken a few days ago still affected her constitution slightly, making her wearied and drowsy no matter what. However, it was impossible for her to sleep.

And it wasn't just the simple fact that she had a giant Baskar priest sucking his thumb a few feet away and snoring, she didn't mind that, after having gotten used to the way Dario snored, that was easy to ignore. Virginia and Jet were cuddled underneath the same blanket, heads nodding against each other and breathing deep. Jet was still pretty bruised up from the long fight that had nearly killed him, and Virginia had taken it upon herself to become his overprotective attendant. What surprised them all was the silver-haired android didn't object to the treatment, maybe he was finally getting the hint that she liked him? Kaitlyn sighed, closing her soft grey eyes and rubbing the faint bruise on her cheek, beginning to disappear as time passed on. Romero had been mean, Antonio was funny and cheerful, and Dario had been nice and slightly bashful. And, Ravendor had acted, well, apart from his failings, just the way she had expected an uncle to act. Now they were all gone.

Rolling over, it was hard to accept that everything was over. Something felt wrong, kind of unfinished, even though everybody had all gone home, or found their places of rest. True, her father still hadn't returned to a human form, but he remained just the same person he was on the inside, and that was enough for herself and her mother. He had his soul back, and it didn't matter what shell it inhabited, Clive would always be Clive. No amount of separation, memories or pain could ever change that. One question still remained, though. Why did she feel so anxious in this way?

Actually, it kind of felt like she was waiting for something.

Their camping trip was guiding them gradually to Little Rock, a nice location that had a much lower monster population and some interesting history. The ARMsmith Annette also lived there, an individual that the little girl was quite eager to meet. For some reason, she had a great burning desire too see this mystery girl, although she had never even heard about her before In her little life. This trip was in some ways convenient to her intents, but Kaitlyn had gotten an inkling that their journey there had no purpose but to entertain her for a few days, and she went along for the ride, if only to keep them all happy. It was the least she could do, after the all the insanity of the past week. Truth be told, she needed a little time out herself. The little girl clutched at the covers with her tiny hands, realizing something she had long overlooked.

Wow. Daddy's right. I **have** grown up…

Kaitlyn had never thought about the world, the people around her, or even herself in this way before, she found herself bearing an entirely new perspective on life, nearly an adult one. She had grown from this, more than she could ever imagine. The world was not innocent, and neither was she, she had seen with her own eyes the things that made it a sad and lonely place, she had seen Ravendor's pain, and knew that the sorrow was a part of everyone, a simple fact of life, a _human_ emotion. Ravendor had suffered terribly and perhaps even unjustly, but that was what had kept his soul human. Kaitlyn could no longer call herself innocent, or naïve. She _knew_, she _understood_ the pain…

And because of it, she could love everyone else all the more so, because she understood that a distinct, singular moment in time would never last forever. Kaitlyn had known Ravendor only briefly, for a few days at the most, but that small meager amount of time had been very precious to her, invaluably so. Everything was important, everything was special, even the sadder or bitter times. Without them, there would be no difference between happy and sad, and then nothing would have any meaning at all. The little girl smiled, she _finally_ understood.

So, what would happen to everyone now? Her father, her mother, the drifters that were sleeping peacefully around her, would everything just go back to normal? Her grey eyes dulled in confusion, would they just ignore _everything_? She rolled onto her back, remembering how heavy her father's gun had felt in her hands, and, without even any hesitation, she had-

Her thoughts quickly cut off, the girl sitting up and looking around the campsite. Something had felt strange, all of a sudden, and the weariness had left her body almost instantly. Kaitlyn tidied her golden hair that was messy from tossing and turning all night, her gaze darting around the stony clearing upon an elevated plain that appeared to be very much like the huge stone quarry of her recent memories. The place where she had played her most fun game of tag ever. It may have been her tired ears playing dastardly tricks on her mind, but Kaitlyn could have sworn she heard something, the sound of footsteps crunching in the gravel that seemed to come from far away, but also very close at the same time. They softened upon each step, slowly fading away.

Slipping on her white shoes, dirty from the dust that rose whenever she scuffed her feet, Kaitlyn brushed aside her blanket borrowed from Gallows, courteously gathering it up in her hands and spreading the cloth over the young priest who had offered it to her for the evening. Gallows muttered something and grabbed an armful of it like a teddy bear of some sort, nuzzling his face into the scratchy cloth. She would not need it for a while, at least. The campfire was a little more than embers, smoldering smoke rising into the dark atmosphere. They had better remember to put it out early the next morning. Her eyes adjusting to the lack of light outside the camping area, Kaitlyn strolled off into the unknown darkness, following the sound of those footsteps.

Jet muttered something in his sleep as she left, probably sensing her departure but too sleepy to wake up and do something about it. Virginia shifted and put her arm around his stomach, her head resting serenely on his shoulder. The little girl paused and looked at them over her shoulder, giggling at the scene that would occur in the morning if Virginia chose to wake up before Jet. She vaguely hoped that Jet was an early riser. Rubbing her bare hands together from the ironic coldness of the wasteland in the middle of the night, she marched on, knowing that she had no choice but to follow.

And there it was again, the sound of close footsteps in the darkness ahead of her, the girl picking up a sensation that was mild and sad, but at the same time tinged with relief and memory. How she knew all this information from seemingly nothing was too difficult to understand, but she still followed it anyway, it had a familiar quality that the little girl could just not place. It disappeared as she scurried over to a complex rock formation, the stones pushed together so they almost resembled a dying tree, a thick and sturdy base with jutting bastions, like a trunk and branches. Without arguing with it, her instinct told her to climb up there. She obediently complied.

Kaitlyn set her foot into the first foothold she could find and hoisted herself up a few inches, realizing the truth. This rock didn't just _look_ like a dead tree, it _was_ one, perfectly petrified in the mold of it's former self. Many years must have passed from after this tree had died, it was somehow magical, and it's twisted and gnarled shape was like a witch's hand, or the hunched body of a mourning widow. It actually gave the arid desert a sort of forlorn quality seen in melancholy pieces of artwork, but that melancholia held it's own degree of beauty. Concentrating and grabbing each little hold she could possibly find, Kaitlyn scaled the tree like a true rock climber, trying not to look down.

On the thickest and most sturdy branch, she flopped down and caught her breath, drained from working so hard. The branch was hugely thick and she could sit on it easily, the wind whistling through the tree's limbs ruffling her golden hair. It was a little too cold for her up here, though she could see the encompassing highlands excellently from this point of view. Her spirit fell when she could no longer hear anything else except for the wind and the silence, had she missed it? What was she even looking for? Swinging her legs off the branch and sighing sadly, she realized she had accidentally disobeyed her mother, running off and away from the others, where she was meant to stay. Kaitlyn had broken her promise. She went a little red and moved to climb down the tree, hoping to get back to camp before anybody noticed her absence.

"No, please do not go just yet. I need to speak with you."

She froze, her heart leaping into her throat and she nearly slipped off the tree branch in fright, grabbing onto the grainy stone for balance and keeping herself seated on the wide limb. Turning sharply and swinging her feet onto the branch, she faced her assailant purposefully, little hands balled up into fists. Who in their right minds would be sitting up in a tree in the middle of the night? Asides from herself, of course. She couldn't really do anything, she was too little, but Kaitlyn remained on the defensive anyway.

All the force left her hands instantly, sliding down to rest by her sides. Mouth open in a tiny gape, her soft grey eyes widened considerably. That initial state of shock lingered for a long time, about twenty seconds passing before Kaitlyn realized it was rude to stare and coughed embarrassedly, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing could be real. "Uncle… Ravendor..?" She whispered, clasping her hands together and blinking unbelievingly. Kaitlyn was positive that he had not been there a second ago. In fact, the tree had been completely bare, vacant, except for herself. She was supposed to be alone.

Ravendor brushed away his fringe with a languid motion, nodding slightly at her stuttered sentence. He reclined casually in the nook between the petrified trunk and branch like a comfortable seat, an oily white rag and his Peacemaker ARM receiving a good polishing in his hands. Hale and unhurt, he regarded Kaitlyn benevolently through emerald green eyes that were finally devoid of pain. "It is good to see you again… Kaitlyn." He replied, his voice strangely lacking the snobby refined air that was always attached to his words, it sounded kinder and a little different, though she could not place exactly what it was that made him sound that way. It was like, he was talking, but the words were not coming directly from his mouth, though his lips moved in the formation of the words flawlessly.

It was he who Kaitlyn had followed through the darkness, and she felt her little chest becoming tight. "But, but, I thought you were…" She didn't know how to finish her sentence, just shaking her head at the end. This was impossible, she had been there when he had died. Ravendor raised a hand, noticeably pale in the starlight, lacking their leather gloves and completely free of the scarring that Clive had given him. Along with the wounds, his claws and tail had gone, so too had his wings. He looked completely… normal. Like a regular human untouched by anything that could offer him pain.

"You do not have to say it," He reassured her fondly, light breezes blowing his dark ponytail to one side, "I am here, see?" The bandit tapped his chest, where the bullet had torn through his heart, and pulled lightly at his long white jacket, proving that he was solid and not just a hallucination. One leg dangled off the tree branch while the other was stretched out in front of him, it looked like he had been there for a long time. Slotting his pistol back into it's hidden holster, he held his arms out for Kaitlyn to enter them, which she did. He was indeed quite solid and warm, not a figment of her imagination. "There was one last little loose end that I had to tie up, so I decided to come back. I came here to tell you something very important, Kaitlyn. Something that you will need to hear." Ravendor said, patting her lightly on the back.

Her shock and confusion gave way to intense delight, the child grinning happily and squeezing the man tightly. "I missed you! Mama and Daddy were so sad when you left! Mama cried and cried and I thought you were never coming back, but now you're here and Daddy can be happy again! Uncle Ravendor, we can go home and be a family!" She babbled out all the tension in her heart without stopping, but all Ravendor did was just nod slightly and listen quietly, looking off into the far away horizon, where the great expanse of eternity lay. This world, this Filgaia was huge and unforgiving, he had witnessed firsthand it's unbridled cruelty, and was a wiser person because of it. Unconsciously, he rubbed the area on his arm where his tattoo used to be, a small grey moth flitting across his vision.

"Kaitlyn," He said solemnly, moving his hand up to stroke her soft golden hair, "I came to say goodbye."

She froze her little speech then and there, in mid-sentence, glancing up at Ravendor. He looked serious and sad, but not in a deeply depressing way, just wistfully regretful. "Goodbye?" She asked, voice shaking, "Why? Where are you going?" She pulled on his clothing, trying to get him to answer her as quickly as possible. She could not believe this, she had found her long lost uncle, and now he was leaving? The little girl shook her head in the negative, her breaths uneven from the rushed talking.

"Well, that is a very complicated question." He told her. "I am going far away, past everything anyone has ever seen or known, to a place where I will be welcome, and where I will be needed the most. I think I have finally found that place." He said cryptically, as if it needed no further explanation. Leaning his head back, he rested on the tree trunk and looked upward at the decaying branches. This world, though slowly replenishing itself, was just too faded for his liking. He couldn't take it anymore, Filgaia, and so he was going to go away, separated from thought and mind, until he was healed enough to return. He needed, so very badly, to rest. Maybe someday, when the grass would be green, the seas crystal blue and the lost children unforsaken, he might come back. But that would probably not happen for a long time, so he smiled.

Looking back up at him, she noticed that the bandit leader had tied his dark hair back into a ponytail using her light blue ribbon. Somehow, it made her feel better to know that he liked her gift enough to be using it, and touching the silver cross resting on her front, she wondered of Ravendor felt the same. But, she was still a little confused over his last remark. "What would that be like?" Kaitlyn asked him quietly, secretly pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to look at his tattooed arm. Her eyebrows knitted together, the markings were gone, banished, no longer there.

"I do not know, but I believe I shall find out very soon." He said, shifting himself up so he could sit on his knees and look at Kaitlyn better. The hug broke and he placed both hands on her small shoulders, looking at her evenly in the eyes. He smiled bemusedly, she looked so innocent, so naïve, but beneath the childlike exterior, she had an incredible courage and determination. When she grew up, Ravendor knew that Kaitlyn would be beautiful, both inside and out. Just the way she used to be. "Will you make me a promise, Kaitlyn?" He questioned her softly, "One that you can _never_ break?"

"Well, of course I will." She assured him with a troubled look on her face. Ravendor's eyes, they looked both sad and happy at the same time, it was impossible to comprehend or understand. The moon emerged from behind a thick cloud and bathed the area in pale light, the smaller branches of the tree casting a series of contrasting shadows over Ravendor's face. She had never seen the anyone look so sincere before in her life.

He closed his eyes, giving her his last and most final request. "Always remain a good girl, Kaitlyn. Live a happy and meaningful life, do not give up on anything, never let grief or loss get you down. Take special care of your parents for me, and when you see them again, please tell your mother and father that I love them and think of them always. Promise me. This is goodbye, Kaitlyn. You will not see me ever again in this particular guise. I am sorry." He murmured while feeling the cool night air brush against his cheek, glad that for once in his existence he could feel such comforts without the constant burning pain of his degenerating blood, his sin and his taint, finally gone. Everything was gone, he had nothing left, but strangely, it somehow made him feel happier, now that he had nothing to lose. Ravendor stood up, perfectly balanced on the thick tree branch, his long jacket billowing out behind his body. He looked down at the little girl and saw that she was crying, remorse flitting behind his mercurial eyes.

The moonlight showed Kaitlyn one last thing as she looked up to meet his eyes, something she should have noticed from the very beginning, but shock and happiness had robbed her of that use of intuition. Almost as if he could read her mind, he nodded, making her blood feel as cold as ice. Ravendor's chest did not rise and fall with breathing, he did not take breath at all. Yet he was still warm and she felt a soul within his solid body, what in the world was he? Confirming her speculation, he answered. "Do not worry about it," He advised, "You are only dreaming, after all. Soon, you will awaken, and be prepared to face tomorrow with the memories of yesterday. It is more than what I could have done." Ravendor smiled. "Now, promise me."

"I… I promise." She vowed between hiccups, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her dress. Ravendor patted her on the shoulder and at last dropped his hands to his sides, looking up and to the side slightly, as if he had just heard his name being called. He knew within his heart, it was time for him to go. Kaitlyn blinked away her tear-filled vision and evaluated Ravendor as he walked past her slight form, perched on the furthermost point of the bough and remarkably keeping his balance. He turned to her and smiled sadly, remembering the few good points of his life. He had learnt, and in his own way, he had grown. Maybe next time, things would be better. Kaitlyn somehow knew this, perhaps, from an inkling of the memories she had once lost. The girl smiled through her tears. "...You really _are_ a dark angel, aren't you?" She said.

His smile became a nearly arrogant smirk, flicking his long ponytail behind his shoulder and facing out into the winds that blew his hair and coat back, he looked contented, like a heavy weight borne all his life had fallen away and left him to do as he pleased. The unkind world and it's brutal rules could not hurt him anymore, he was free. Absently, he rubbed the spot where his old scars used to be, forgiving Clive and extinguishing the hate that burned foully in his heart. It was gone. "I will… I will be watching out for you, Kaitlyn. You have a guardian angel in me, I can assure you. Just please, please stay as kind and as gentle as you already are. Goodbye, Kaitlyn Seraph Winslett." He said with finality, clenching both of his hands, pushing off with his feet, and leaping, coat trailing behind him as he hit the dusty land below.

He started to walk down the elevated plain, hands in the pockets of his coat and gazing straight forward into the night, a smug grin on his pale face. He headed west, making absolutely no noise, but his body was somehow illuminated by the moon and starlight, like a beacon that was slowly moving away. "It is over…" He whispered quietly, hardly believing it himself, "It is finally over…" The realization almost made him want to laugh, out of sheer relief. Kaitlyn squinted to follow his movements, and he stopped for a short while to wave happily, saying his very last farewell.

It built up in her chest like a great hiccup, a desire to say a thousand things at once while he was still in earshot, she raised her hands to cup her mouth and hollered as loud as her lungs could provide, pouring her emotion into every word. "I love you, Uncle Ravendor! Goodbye!" Ravendor still waved, and she felt contentment envelope her mind. Something told her he had gotten the message, and it was returned.

An ambient cawing startled Kaitlyn out of her skin, Kestorael swooped down low over the branches and perched neatly upon her little shoulder, berating her for leaving the safety of the campsite. Breaking her concentration, she looked away and got a soft peck on the side of her cheek mildly, a motion used by birds as a greeting. Oh well, she knew that at least _one_ of them would find out. Stroking the cool feathers on the raven's wings, she glanced back at the spot where Ravendor once stood, hearing the dark-haired man's footsteps fading into the night, feeling relief, forgiveness, and completion building up in her heart. For him, it was the end, finally, a happy ending, _his_ ending.

Like the sigh of a spirit, or the footsteps of a ghost, he was gone.

-fin-


End file.
